Das Phantom von Deutschland
by sparklyscorpion
Summary: ON HIATUS PENDING MAJOR EDITING The Phantom of the Opera set in Nazi occupied France. Christine is a resistance worker and Erik is a Nazi spy determined to infiltrate the group. Rated T for mature issues discussed.
1. Prologue 1: The Locusts

_Author's Note: Thank you to Gaston Leroux for PotO, Jamie L. Vaughan for the idea of setting PotO in WW2, Schattenfreude for the idea of having Christine as a resistance worker and Erik as a Nazi infiltrator, Mr. Robert S. for sharing his memories of WW2 and the French Resistance with me, everyone who told me that I could do this (especially Shay, Jenn, and Maggie), and those of you who have read the old story._

_I removed Das because I was frustrated with my inability to do justice to this story idea; I am hoping that this second time through will be better._

_This story is lovingly dedicated to Shay, for without her this story never would have existed. Many thanks to Jennyfair for betaing, giving advice, listening to me complain, and telling me to tone down the history nerdiness.  
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**June 14, 1940 – Paris, France – Christine**

The day was sticky without the slightest hint of a breeze to carry the sound of the thousands of booted feet that must be stomping along the streets of Paris, yet I could still feel the Germans approaching. I stood quietly on the sidewalk, blending into the nearly silent throngs of people that lined the avenue, all of us looking for the first sign of the conquerors, all of us waiting – it was the only thing that could be done now. 

The man standing beside me began to sob and a woman passed him a handkerchief as she hissed sternly that we had to be strong. I clenched my fists and closed my eyes, remembering how often I had heard that same admonition during my life and hating it. _I'm tired of being brave_, I thought to myself as my fingernails dug into my palms, _I'm tired of losing everyone and everything. When will it end?_

"They're coming." The words raced through the crowd and I opened my eyes. I had never known an era of vicious war; by the time I had been born, Europe had already fought _la der des ders_, the last of the last, or so everyone said. Too much had been lost in the war that had engulfed the Continent – money, land, an entire generation – and it seemed impossible to believe that such a tragedy could be repeated, especially so soon. Our politicians had been quick to reassure us that diplomacy could solve everything and that there would be no need to fight the Nazis, but my guardians, the Valériuses, had always looked to the east with caution.

My heart beat painfully as I thought of Mama, and for a selfish moment I wished that she were here with me so I would not be alone. _It's a mercy that she died before this_, I reminded myself as the faint sound of hobnailed boots meeting the pavement reached my ears, and even though I knew it was true, I still longed for someone to be here with me, someone who had experienced war before and could reassure me that everything would be fine.

"They're not animals," someone nearby whispered, although to my ears it sounded more like a prayer than a statement. I shivered in spite of the heat and wrapped my arms around my midsection as the sound of their marching grew louder, fervently hoping that the Nazis were human beings after all, or at least acted like it.

"We should have left," another voice declared half-hysterically, nearly drowned out by the noise of the advancing German soldiers. "Even the government had enough sense to leave!" Many of my neighbors had packed their belongings and fled the city; it was rumored that over a million Parisians had gone south into the countryside in an effort to escape from the invaders, and not for the first time I wished that I had run away too, although I knew that I had nowhere to go. Mama had been all I had left in the world, and she had died a few months before.

I could see them now, a thin line snaking its way down the street, and their metal hats gleamed so brightly in the sun that I had to shield my eyes with my hand. I noticed that their dark green uniforms were neat and well-tailored, but I could not help but compare them to a plague of locusts, as destructive and unwanted as the insect hoards that sometimes invaded southern France, and I felt numb inside as I watched them. Soon they were close enough that I could make out their faces, several sporting grotesque smirks of triumph but none meeting our eyes as they passed us by, every last man staring straight ahead and marching so perfectly that they resembled toy soldiers more than real ones.

Unable to watch the horrid display of power any longer, I turned away from the endless parade of soldiers and blindly pushed my way through the crowd, wondering why I had come at all. I walked as quickly as I could, trying to get far away from the nightmarish sound of those boots stomping along the _Champs-Elysées_, and I didn't stop to collect my thoughts until I had crossed the Seine. I stared at the Eiffel Tower as I leaned against the bridge, the flag of France still waving proudly from the top of the building, and I could not imagine a Nazi flag in its place.

The streets were nearly deserted as I wandered back towards my apartment, with most of the shop windows boarded up and every business closed; even the Opera had canceled performances for an undetermined amount of time, and the managers were unsure if they would reopen this year. There was nothing to do in the city except to hope that the worst was over, and I was in no hurry to return home to stare at the blank walls of my sitting room or listen to the radio play outdated news programs.

I thought of Mama again and how much easier life had been knowing that she was waiting for me to return to our flat after a brutal rehearsal. She had been the grandmother I had never known, my only source of comfort when I had been overwhelmed by grief after my father's passing, and the one who had encouraged me to stay in the Conservatory after I had lost all will to sing. Her death had been an incredible shock to me, even though she had been ill all of the years that I had known her – "a weak heart and a frail constitution" the doctors had declared – but she had clung to life with a fierce tenacity that had convinced me that if anyone could possibly be immortal it would be her. Discovering one morning that she had quietly gone to sleep and would never wake again was devastating.

I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I didn't notice three German soldiers approaching me until it was too late to politely turn down another street to avoid them. It felt as if every muscle in my body tensed as they came closer, although I tried to keep a neutral expression on my face. I had heard frightening tales of the brutality of the Nazis, how they raped and murdered as they pleased, and I clutched my purse to keep my hands from shaking too noticeably. The soldiers tipped their soft-brimmed hats to me, one even daring to smile when he caught my eye, and I quickly focused upon the sidewalk and hoped that they would pass me by without saying a word.

"Excuse me Mademoiselle?" One of the Nazis asked in garbled French, and I stared at his feet, refusing to meet his gaze. "Can you tell me where the _Champ de Mars_ is?"

I stood silently, still looking at his boots, too afraid to answer or even to walk away. One of the other soldiers grumbled something in German and all three of them laughed. I tried to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat and wondered what the man had said. Were they mocking me or did they have more sinister intentions?

I remembered the advice Mama had given me only a few days before her death: "If the worst comes to pass and I am not here with you, remember that you are Swedish and the Nazis have no quarrel with your country. Be a good girl, give them no cause to look at you twice, and everything will be fine." _Oh Mama_, I thought dismally, _the Nazis have scarcely been here for half a day and already they are stopping me in the streets_!

"Perhaps you can understand me," the soldier who had spoken in German gently said in nearly perfect French, only a hint of an accent marring his speech. "I'm afraid Otto did not pay enough attention in French class as a youth. Could you please direct us to the _Champ de Mars_?"

Hesitantly I peeked at him from beneath lowered lashes. He didn't seem like a vicious savage, standing there in the sunlight with a smile upon his face, and I turned around to point in the direction of the park. "There, before you reach the Eiffel Tower," I managed to squeak, even though I felt like crying.

"Thank you," they all said in unison, bobbing their heads and touching the brims of their hats. Otto, the one who had spoken to me first, stuck his hand in his pocket and searched for something, causing me to grow tense once more. _Handcuffs_? I wondered as I debated whether I could outrun them if I needed to do so, deciding that it was unlikely even though I obviously knew the city better than they did. _A gun_? The soldier gestured for me to hold out my hand and I did so instinctively, and he pressed something against my palm and folded my fingers over it before they all bowed again and ambled towards the park.

I waited until they were out of sight before opening my fist and discovering that they had given me a piece of wrapped hard candy.

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_Author's Note: Every detail in this chapter is historically accurate as far as I can determine; apologies for any unintentional historical inaccuracies._

_Soon I hope to create a comprehensive list of the sources I have used when writing this story._


	2. Prologue 2: Rosy Hours

_Author's Note: Thank you to Gaston Leroux for PotO, Jamie L. Vaughan for the idea of setting PotO in WW2, Schattenfreude for the idea of having Christine as a resistance worker and Erik as a Nazi infiltrator, Mr. Robert S. for sharing his memories of WW2 and the French Resistance with me, everyone who told me that I could do this (especially Shay, Jenn, and Maggie), and those of you who have read the old story._

_This story is lovingly dedicated to Shay, for without her this story never would have existed. _

_Many squishy thanks to Jennyfair for her mad googling skills, allowing me to vent my frustration about this chapter, her wicked magic with verb tenses, and for putting up with my fear of the Big City (and airplanes and subways).  
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_Firefox is being evil and won't let me put in line breaks, so the dashed line will have to do._

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**January 1942 – Bilosvet, The Crimea, Russia – Erik**

A month ago I had been temporarily stationed in eastern Poland on special duty and cursing the bitter temperatures, but as I stared out the window at the picturesque town of Bilosvet I wished with all of my heart that I had remained there. I glanced down at my bandaged forearm and gingerly massaged it for a moment before looking outside again and watching the soldiers standing outside of the prison that stood on the hill behind the hospital where I had spent the last ten days. I had returned to the Crimea just in time to see Bilosvet fall, rejoining my men as they had overrun the few remaining Communist soldiers who had not already deserted the area.

Once a popular winter retreat for the Russian imperial family, Bilosvet had suffered under Communist rule and the residents had offered little resistance once the Soviet army had withdrawn from the city. After being assured by the Wehrmacht that the town had been cleared of all enemy combatants and deemed safe, I had been ordered to take a small group of officers with me to tour the prison that the Communists had used and to document any evidence of atrocities committed against German prisoners of war. Although we had been cautioned that the Red Army sometimes left snipers behind in suicide missions, none of us were overly concerned about the possible danger. SS-OA Hinz, the most junior member of the group, had been thrilled to be named an officer candidate recently and had reminded me of an irritating puppy as he raced ahead of us to inspect the prison that we believed to be empty. A few of the other men had called after him, teasing him for his eagerness, and we had all been shocked when Hinz fell to the ground dead in front of us, a bullet lodged in his forehead.

The remainder of our group had fanned out to pinpoint the sniper's location but three more fell before we successfully eliminated him. My thoughts had been so focused upon the sniper that I had not realized that I was injured until a junior officer had saluted me. When I had attempted to return his gesture I noticed an odd tingling in my right forearm and that the sleeve of my uniform was soaked with blood. I had dismissed it as a harmless flesh wound until I had reached the makeshift field hospital, where further inspection showed just how serious it was. The doctors had initially hoped to save my arm, but two days after being shot signs of infection began to appear and they hastily amputated it five centimeters below the elbow.

Now I was trapped in this hospital, spending my days staring out the window facing the prison that was now filled with Communists and Jews. I could have joined the other seven convalescents who chose to crowd around the other window available in the cramped building, deciding to gaze wistfully at the lone road that snaked its way through the town instead, but I remained alone. I had resisted all of their friendly overtures, having no desire to fraternize with anyone here; my goals were to heal as much as possible and then return to my duties, although I had no idea what those duties would be now.

Perhaps I would no longer have any tasks to complete after this afternoon. My commander, SS-OStrmbf Zumwald, had informed me that he would be paying a visit to the hospital today; I knew from past experience that such visits usually signaled the end of a man's military career. He would likely tell me that I was a brave man and that our Führer was grateful for the sacrifices I had made in service to the Reich. His flowery speech could be concluded with a medal or promotion; if I was extremely lucky I would be given a respectable office job in the RSHA back in Germany, where I would be provided with a comfortable flat, a generous paycheck, and maybe even a pretty secretary to handle all of the typing and filing. _How wonderful_, I thought bitterly to myself as I waited for him to arrive. _All of the paperwork will afford me the opportunity to learn how to sign my name with my left hand_.

Many of the men who had been assigned to the Ukraine with me would probably be thrilled with the chance to return to Germany, but I had fought hard to join the ranks of the SD and had been forced to prove myself worthy at every turn. I had been told constantly that I would never make it, that my weakened lungs would prevent me from passing the rigorous physical examinations required for admittance to the SD or that my age would hinder my progress with so many younger officer candidates, but I had proven my detractors wrong. Now a lucky shot from a Russian sniper had ended everything I had worked so hard to accomplish.

The sound of booted feet approaching jarred me from my bitter thoughts, the rough noise indicating that it must be an officer since the orderlies wore soft-soled shoes inside the hospital. "Heil Hitler, SS-Strmbf von Helm."

"Heil Hitler," I responded unenthusiastically to the clipped words, tucking my right arm beneath the blanket that covered my lap without giving the customary salute. I was too weak to stand upon my wobbling legs for more than a few minutes at a time and I hated that Zumwald would see me in such a state.

"How are you feeling?" he nearly barked as he seated himself across from me, glancing out the window with a frown. "You should be with the other men instead of sulking back here alone."

"I'm not sulking," I muttered irritably as he fixed his unnerving gaze on my masked face. "I'm thinking and don't wish to be disturbed."

"You're always thinking," he replied without humor as he fumbled with a piece of paper in his front pocket. "I made mention of that in my last evaluation of you – 'SS-Strmbf von Helm is a quiet, dependable officer who spends hours contemplating ways to make our operation more efficient.' Don't look so uncomfortable, you know that I only give the truth. I don't have the time to waste on flattery and compliments." He paused for a minute before adding gruffly, "I knew that no matter what orders I gave you'd follow them to the letter. I'll be damned sorry to see you go."

I sighed and shifted in the uncomfortable chair, suddenly unable to sit still. "So it's official then…am I to be chained to a desk or am I being pushed out of the SD altogether?"

He blinked a few times at my venomous tone before providing an answer. "Don't be ridiculous, von Helm. Surely you don't believe that SS-Staf Ohlendorf would allow you to waste your peculiar talents tucked away in some office building in Berlin." He waved the piece of paper that he had not yet unfolded. "A telegram arrived from him this morning – as soon as you're able to travel you're being transferred to Denmark."

"Denmark?" I echoed, the unexpected news disorienting me for a moment. "Why Denmark?"

Zumwald shrugged before tossing the piece of paper onto my lap. "He didn't specify, although I imagine he's been grooming you for a plum assignment for months now. Don't tell me you didn't suspect – why else would he send you to Poland to have you consult on a special project? He's had his eye on you ever since you gave me those plans for streamlining our mission."

"He did seem to appreciate them," I said gruffly as I slipped the telegram into my pocket without reading it.

"'Appreciate' isn't the correct word," Zumwald snorted as he rose from the chair and faced the window once more. "I think 'enthusiastically endorse and rave about them to all of his colleagues' is far more accurate." He shuffled his feet and stared at the prison with emotionless eyes. "What would you do with the prison? I know that it's my decision – you always remind me of that fact when I ask for advice – but what would _you_ do if the decision were yours?"

I glared at the eyesore that had occupied most of my thoughts for nearly two weeks. "I'd bolt the doors and burn it to the ground, allowing the smoldering ashes to stand as a reminder to this entire town how we deal with the enemy." I took a deep breath to regain my composure, schooling my voice into a more neutral tone. "But, as you said, it is your decision to make."

Zumwald nodded thoughtfully but said nothing more about it. "I wish you luck in Denmark, von Helm. Good day."

A few hours later the other men in the hospital crowded around my window to watch the blaze atop the hill, the massive funeral pyre lighting the night sky. I heard their cheers and whistles as I stared out the now-deserted front window, quietly examining the road that would take me from this place and to a new life.

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_Author's Note: Bilosvet is a fictional town, although some of the events described as happening in it (the burning of the prison, the Communist snipers, etc) were very real and happened in other places. All of the SS men mentioned in this chapter are fictional except SS-Staf Ohlendorf, the commander of Einsatzgruppe D (of which Erik is a member).  
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_After much thought, I have decided to make Erik a member of the SD, short for the __Sicherheitsdienst, or the Nazi intelligence agency. I think this will be a better fit for the story._

_I have hinted at several things about Erik's past in this chapter, most of which will be explained more fully in the next chapter. Fair warning - Erik is NOT a fluffy character, so if such things offend your sensibilities you may not want to read this story.  
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_As always, any historical inaccuracies are unintentional, and I apologize for them.  
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	3. Prologue 3: Broken Ties

_Author's Note: Thank you to Gaston Leroux for PotO, Jamie L. Vaughan for the idea of setting PotO in WW2, Schattenfreude for the idea of having Christine as a resistance worker and Erik as a Nazi infiltrator, Mr. Robert S. for sharing his memories of WW2 and the French Resistance with me, and everyone who didn't give up on me. ;)  
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_This story is lovingly dedicated to Shay, for without her this story never would have existed. _

_Many squishy thanks to my beta, Jennyfair, who has most definitely earned her angels wings by putting up with me as I whined about this chapter for the past two and a half months.  
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May 1942 – Helsingør, Denmark – Erik**

Sniffing the cup of fresh coffee appreciatively before taking a small sip, I surveyed the front page of the local newspaper to see if anything caught my attention. It was a few days old but that hardly mattered; now that we controlled the media it seemed that the only stories deemed newsworthy were endless retellings of German military victories. Unlike most of the other Nazis stationed in the area, I had been able to learn enough Danish to function in society; I had been exposed to the language during my childhood in northern Germany although only recently had I made an honest attempt to learn it. Scanning one of the articles briefly, I was able to determine that it was yet another rehashing of a minor battle in Russia. I pushed the paper away and chose to enjoy my coffee instead, unsure of when I would be able to have access to another cup. I had been informed earlier in the week that my training in Denmark was now complete and I would be sent to France soon, although the exact date of my departure was still unknown to me. Once I arrived in Paris I would assume another identity entirely and probably wouldn't have the chance to have any quality coffee for quite some time since it was becoming increasingly scarce.

I knew that my assignment would be difficult but I was looking forward to leaving Helsingør; the local people made a point of being unfriendly to anyone associated with the Nazi Party, especially to those of us who were associated with the SS. It had taken me a while to grow accustomed to the hostility we faced here since we had been welcomed as liberators by most of the Ukrainians, but I had persevered and spent what little free time I had preparing for my future assignment in Paris. My mother had been born in France and had insisted that I be instructed in the language and culture of her homeland from a very early age, but I had not spoken French in many years and had found myself working hard to replicate the accent and mannerisms that had once been second nature to me.

Finally finishing the coffee, I placed the empty mug into the sink and slipped my mask into place. I always wore the flesh-colored device even when I was alone, removing it only when necessary to sleep, eat, or drink; I was so accustomed to wearing my mask now that I felt uncomfortable without it. I was still not used to my newly-acquired prosthetic arm but I had almost developed a sufficient callus to keep it in place for the entire day without a great deal of agony. Sometimes the blisters that formed only intensified the overwhelming pains that shot through the remainder of my limb; the doctors had dubbed these "phantom pains" and had assured me that they were normal, offering to prescribe medication to make them more bearable. So far I had refused their offers, instead choosing to suffer with the pains rather than risk developing an addiction. I had grown too reliant upon morphine after the injuries I had suffered during the Great War and had no desire to return to such a state of dependence.

I planned to spend the day packing my belongings and finishing_ Le Rouge et le Noir, _one of the French novels I had decided to read to help immerse myself in the language once more. Crating up my meager possessions would not take very long; years of being a soldier had taught me to pack lightly and I had only allowed myself one luxury – my violin, which had been my constant traveling companion since I had left Germany. Even though my wounds from the Great War had robbed me of most of my ability to sing, I had been mostly content in spite of my limitations as long as I had been able to create music. I had nearly disposed of the instrument several times since the incident in Russia during fits of rage and despair, but I couldn't quite bring myself to be rid of it completely. I had heard of a man who had created different attachments for amputees to assist them in performing everyday tasks; it was my hope that eventually I could find something that would permit me to play the violin once more.

I opened my closet and removed the violin case, allowing my fingers to linger upon the smooth leather for a moment longer than necessary before stowing it an open box and burying it beneath a pile of neatly folded clothing. Several minutes later I was nearly finished with my packing when a knock at the door startled me; even though I wasn't expecting any company today it wasn't uncommon for a soldier to appear on my doorstep to inform me that my attendance was required elsewhere. Hurriedly brushing away the dust that had somehow managed to coat my pants and vest, I self-consciously patted my wig and mask to assure myself that they were in place before opening the door.

The man standing outside my apartment was no soldier; judging from his clothing and the slight smell of fish that lingered in the air he was a common Danish fisherman. I did not recognize him but there was something unsettling about the man, almost as if I should have remembered him from a previous meeting. "Yes?" I questioned in a neutral voice, surveying him with a growing sense of unease as I wondered if this was some sort of test of which I had been unaware, perhaps an exit examination to prove my readiness for my assignment in France.

"Erik von Helm?" he stammered in slightly accented German, apparently unsure if I was indeed the person he sought. When I did not answer him he tilted his head to study me, drawing my attention to the series of scars that started at his cheek and raced down the side of his neck. My hand rose involuntarily to touch the matching set of scars that twisted along my own neck, the high collared shirts I customarily wore unable to hide all of them from view. "Have you forgotten me? I know that it's been quite some time since we saw one another last…"

"Pedar?" I managed to gasp, finding it nearly impossible to believe that the middle-aged man in the hallway was the same young soldier with whom I had served in the German Imperial Army during the Great War. Whenever I had thought of him in recent years I had always pictured him as the amiable fellow that I had known decades ago and had not given any thought to what he might look like as a grown man.

We had met shortly after I had been sent to western Belgium and had become fast friends, viewing each other more as brothers than mere comrades. He had saved my life when I had been shot in the face during an attack on the Allied lines, pushing me down into the mud and covering my body with his own to keep me from wandering about in a dazed state of pain. It had taken several hours for the doctors to realize the consequences of Pedar's bravery; during the fighting we had evidently been exposed to mustard gas that had been intended for our enemies and had both suffered severe burns upon our faces and torsos. My injuries had been much worse than Pedar's due to the complications from the gun shot that I had sustained, the mangled flesh of my face more susceptible to the effects of the gas; I had also managed to inhale enough of it to damage my lungs. I had quickly contracted a case of pneumonia that the doctors had sworn would kill me but I had somehow managed to survive, although my lungs were still weak and prone to infection.

"May I come inside?" Pedar hesitantly asked when I made no move to invite him into my apartment, jarring me from my memories.

"Of course," I replied hastily, standing aside so he could enter the living room. I glanced down the hallway to assure myself that he had not been followed, more out of habit than necessity. "I knew there was something familiar about you _Apostel_, I just couldn't place it right way."

"_Apostel_," he repeated the old nickname wistfully as I bolted the door behind us. "I haven't heard that in a long time." We had dubbed him _Apostel _because of his name and his desire to be a fisherman once the war ended just as generations of Larsen men had been before him. Most of the men who had referred to him by that nickname were long dead and I wondered if I had been the last person to call him by it when we said our farewells twenty-four years ago.

"How did you know where to find me?" I was glad to see him although I could not help but be suspicious of his motives; only a few people knew that I was located in Denmark and all of them were members of the Nazi Party. I supposed there was a chance that Pedar was a Nazi sympathizer, especially with his former ties to the German army, but that would not explain how he had known that I was here.

"I have a friend who files the transfer orders and I asked her to tell me if you were ever assigned to Denmark," he replied with a dismissive shrug, as if the way he had found my address wasn't important. His answer would have seemed too convenient even if I had not known he was lying; anything that listed my location was restricted and not kept with the files of regular SS members. Pedar's friend had obviously been searching for me specifically and without permission.

"Even if that were true I've been here for months. Why did you choose today to visit?" His gaze slid away from mine and focused upon his boots, a sure sign that he realized that his attempted deception had been discovered.

He laughed but it held no mirth, swiping his cap from his head and shoving it into the pocket of his overalls. "You weren't always this straightforward."

"And you used to be one of the most blunt people I knew, Pedar. When did that change?" The nervous man standing in my apartment little resembled the notoriously outspoken soldier who had routinely earned extra picket duty for being too frank with our commander. "Why are you here?"

"I need your help," he mumbled after a moment of uncomfortable silence, his flushed face evidence of his embarrassment. It had obviously not been an easy admission for him to make; he had never been the type of person who liked to rely upon others for assistance, always preferring to do things himself whenever possible. "When I went to my girlfriend's flat last night she wasn't there." He tugged at the collar of his shirt and cleared his throat before continuing. "When I asked a neighbor where she was I learned that the Gestapo had arrested her earlier in the evening."

"Your girlfriend was arrested?" I wasn't sure if I was more surprised by the fact that Pedar had a girlfriend or that the Gestapo believed her to be guilty of some crime against the State. I had never been in a relationship and for some reason I had assumed that Pedar had suffered the same fate, although his scars were far less severe than mine and he seemed to take a stubborn sort of pride in displaying them to the world.

He nodded miserably before staring at his boots once more. "What was the charge?" He did not answer me as he shuffled his feet agitatedly, avoiding my gaze and causing my sense of unease to grow. "Why did they arrest her, Pedar?" I repeated with more force, tapping my fingers restlessly against my side.

"She's in the resistance." His admission was so quiet that I had to strain to hear the words.

"What?" I asked in disbelief, sure that I had misunderstood him. I was certain that even if he was not actively involved with our cause that he would not choose to be linked to anyone who worked against it. "Did you just say that she was a member of the resistance?"

"Yes," he replied with more confidence, finally raising his head and meeting my eyes. "We both are."

"If this is a joke I don't find it to be very amusing," I irritably snapped before beginning to pace the length of my living room, furious that he would even jest about being a member of the Danish resistance, but he did not seem to be enjoying the situation anymore than I was. Halting suddenly in the middle of the room, I spun around and faced him once more. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yes." The single word of affirmation was painful to hear; even though we had fallen out of touch long ago it was distressing to realize how far we had obviously grown apart in the years since we had seen each other last. At one time we had been the best of friends; now he had chosen to side with the lawbreakers and Communists, the very groups I had combated in Russia.

"We fought together when we were young and now you decide to fight against me? How could you?" I was unable to keep the anger that was building within me from creeping into my voice, making me sound harsher than I had initially intended.

He took a step towards me with his hands outstretched, a placating gesture that only served to infuriate me more. "I'm not trying to betray you Erik, but if I didn't oppose the occupation I would feel as if I were betraying myself and my countrymen. I'm an old man and I'm tired of death and bloodshed; I just want to live the rest of my life in peace. Please understand—"

"You're a traitor," I hissed, jerking away from him as he lay one hand against my arm. "It's not just me, you're betraying every man who died in Belgium with your actions."

He flinched at my bitter remarks but did not retreat, his cheeks growing ruddy as his temper visibly flared. "And without me there would have been one more who met his end there."

"You act as if I owe you something for that, Pedar. What favor have you done for me? What kind of life have I led because of your _generosity_?" I had not realized that I still harbored so much resentment towards him until I ground out the accusations that had remained buried inside me for decades.

"You tell me that I have betrayed those men in the trenches – listen to yourself! You wallow in self-pity yet you still live! That is more than any of them can say. Every time I look in the mirror or someone stares at me in the street I remember how I obtained these scars, but never once have I felt ashamed of them because I earned them." He halted his tirade suddenly, the sounds of his harsh breathing filling the small apartment. "If you don't help me I'll do it myself. I refuse to lose her."

This hot-headed firebrand was more like the man I recalled from my youth; I could almost hear him ordering me to get well in the wretched field hospital where we had spent months recuperating from our injuries. He had refused to give up on me even when the doctors had declared that I was a hopeless cause, even when I had been so delirious from the fever and pneumonia that I had been eager to die. I was enraged by his decision to join the resistance but it did not change the fact that he had saved my life; in spite of my anger I owed him far more than the unkindness I had displayed since he had arrived at my door. "I can only promise to try to help you," I uttered with a sigh of defeat, Pedar's shoulders sagging in relief. "Tell me all that you know."

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Later that morning I found myself standing in front of the Gestapo headquarters of Helsingør, feeling uncomfortable in my starched shirt and neatly pressed uniform. I had grown accustomed to wearing less formal clothing during my time in Denmark, as those of us who had been training for undercover work had been instructed to wear casual clothes most days to prepare us for future assignments. I supposed that I could have chosen to wear a civilian suit with a lapel pin signifying my membership to the Nazi Party, but for the task ahead of me I thought it was best to assume the most official air possible. 

There was no guarantee that our haphazard plan would even work; in fact, I believed that it was more likely that I would fail. My goal was to remove Pedar's girlfriend from the custody of the Gestapo and to meet him at a local hotel, where they would be reunited if everything worked as Pedar hoped it would. I had already arranged for a car to meet us here shortly; I just hoped that I could successfully bluff my way through the next few minutes. _At least it will be good preparation for France_, I told myself as I lifted my chin and breathed the fresh air deeply, willing myself to be calm before striding up the front stairs in what I hoped was a confident manner. _If you can mislead Nazi soldiers who are schooled in strict protocol and procedures, surely you can fool ordinary French citizens._

The Gestapo headquarters was a requisitioned apartment building that had been hastily modified to make it more suitable for housing persons of interest; I had only been inside it twice but I remembered the floor plan well enough to breeze past the front desk with a mere nod to the guard on duty there, making my way to the second floor where most of the female detainees were kept.

The young soldier who occupied the office on the second floor offered me a smart salute as I approached him; I was relieved to discover that I had previously met him and that he had struck me as a reasonable person. "Heil Hitler."

"Heil Hitler," I repeated distractedly, returning his salute as best as I could with my left arm. "I hope that you can help me – I'm searching for a woman named Beatrix Rasmussen."

"Beatrix Rasmussen," he murmured as he pulled a ledger from the desk drawer, thumbing through the pages before settling upon one in particular. He ran his finger down the page before frowning, the neat script that filled the book detailing the name and fate of every woman who had passed through this center. "I'm sorry, there's no Beatrix Rasmussen listed," he replied politely as he closed the ledger and returned it to the drawer. "Are you sure that she was sent here?"

"I can't think of anywhere else she would be…she was only arrested last night, surely she couldn't have been sent to Copenhagen already." If she had left this detention center there was no telling where she was and it would be nearly impossible for me to locate her before she was deported to Germany; once she crossed the border it would be hopeless to try to bring her back.

"She was arrested last night? Well that explains things." The guard offered me a friendly smile as he pointed to a neat stack of papers perched on the corner of his desk. "We're almost a day behind in processing since there was a particularly large arrest earlier in the week." He began to sort through the stack of reports, humming an off-key tune beneath his breath as he worked, and after a few minutes he withdrew a sheet and studied it carefully. "Here we are, Beatrix Rasmussen – arrested on suspicion of having ties to the resistance."

"I don't know how this could have happened," I mumbled with what I hoped passed for believable confusion, relieved that she had not yet been processed. There would be no official record of her arrest if I could convince the guard to release her before processing the report and I would not need to fabricate any excuses to explain her release. "Beatrix isn't involved with the resistance at all – she's quite friendly to our cause."

"It's like that, is it?" he teased with a knowing grin, rising from his desk and shoving his hands into his pockets. "Mistakes occur once in a while, as I'm sure you know. She's fortunate that she has a friend who is willing to take the time to fix things."

"Thank you," I whispered as he withdrew a ring of keys from his pocket with a triumphant grin. "This means a great deal to me…"

"Wait here, I'll be back shortly." He meandered out of the office and shut the door behind him, leaving me alone in the cramped room that was nearly overflowing with reports and ledgers. The Nazi government prided itself in its orderliness, although I personally believed that the excessive paperwork was wasteful. Taking the sheet of paper that the soldier had left upon his desk, I began to study the written description of Beatrix and hoped that she would not denounce me as a stranger. _I should have asked Pedar if he had a picture of her so I could at least recognize her_.

A few minutes later the soldier returned with an attractive blonde woman at his heels, her eyes downcast as she remained in the hallway outside the office. "I can understand your eagerness to get her back – she's quite pretty," he joked good-naturedly, taking the report from me and ripping it in half before tossing it into the wastebasket. "Keep her occupied and out of trouble." The woman's cheeks were bright scarlet as I once again thanked the soldier for his help and I realized that she must know enough German to understand that he was making innuendoes about our relationship.

"Come with me," I hissed as I left the office, irritated by the exchange with the young soldier although he had meant no harm with his amiable badgering.

"Where are we going?" she questioned in very proper German, still staring at the floor although she squared her shoulders as if preparing for a fight.

"You'll see soon enough," I grumbled, nodding towards the door that led to the stairwell. "I'm not in a mood to be answering questions, follow me and be quiet until we reach our destination." I pivoted on my heel and strode down the hallway, the unsteady sound of Beatrix's heeled shoes against the floor the only sign that she was indeed behind me. The car I had ordered to meet us was waiting at the curb and I opened the door with too much force, nearly stumbling upon the pavement as I gestured for her to be seated.

She seemed ready to resist and I glared at her coldly, feeling the rage that I had experienced when I had learned about Pedar's defection to the resistance begin to fill my veins. I knew that I could easily settle her nerves and win her cooperation by whispering into her ear that I was a friend of Pedar's, but for some unexplainable reason I refused to assure her that my intentions were honorable. Finally relenting, she climbed into the back of the vehicle, her knee-length dress revealing a brief flash of thigh as she tripped and fell onto the seat. I looked away guiltily and tapped upon the passenger window, informing the driver of our destination before joining Beatrix in the back seat.

"Where are you taking me?" she murmured in a low voice, her hands trembling as she smoothed the hem of her skirt over her knees.

"I thought I told you that I wasn't in a mood for conversation," I snarled, my hopes for a peaceful ride to the hotel dashed. "Are you always so full of questions?"

"Only when I find myself in the back of a strange car being whisked away by a Gestapo officer I've never met before." She continued to focus upon the hem of her dress and I was unable to discern if she was being completely serious or if she was trying to inject a bit of levity into the strained situation.

"I'm not Gestapo," I muttered as I scowled at her, thwarted in my attempt to intimidate her into silence.

"It doesn't really matter, does it? You're all the same." She glanced out the window for a moment before finally meeting my eyes for the first time. "If you're going to kill me I would rather know – I can assure you that I won't become hysterical if that is your concern. I've been trying to prepare myself for death ever since the Nazis marched into town. Some part of me knew that it was inevitable."

"If you did what you were told it wouldn't be inevitable," I snapped as I finally lost control of the frustration I had only half-heartedly been trying to keep in check. "We have tried to be nothing but reasonable and patient with the Danes and yet the entire lot of you seem determined to become martyrs at any cost."

"I wouldn't consider myself a martyr—" She was bolder than I had expected her to be, displaying the same stubborn streak that I had witnessed in Pedar's attitude, which only served to exacerbate my anger.

"Then stop acting like one," I shouted harshly, causing her to visibly startled. "I've heard nothing but excuses since I've set foot in this country and I am tired of it. You were aware of what the rules are and yet you chose to break them, so take responsibility for your actions instead of trying to insinuate that you're being persecuted. Now you will sit there and be quiet until we arrive at our destination. If I hear one more word from you I will order the driver to turn around and deposit you on the next train departing for Germany without a moment's hesitation. Is that clear?"

She opened her mouth but closed it abruptly, apparently deciding that a quick nod would be the better choice before looking out the window once more. Relieved that I would be spared from her contentious chatter for the next few minutes, I allowed myself to gaze at the woman who occupied the seat across from me. Now that I could see her more clearly I realized that she was older than I had originally thought, probably closer to forty than thirty if the lines around her eyes were any indication, but if one could overlook her quarrelsome personality she was rather attractive. She was fortunate that I had found her before she had been sent to a concentration camp; although we liked to pride ourselves in the professionalism of our soldiers I was quite aware that they were still only men and she would have likely drawn quite a bit of unwanted attention.

She became noticeably uncomfortable as the driver pulled onto a narrow side street, her hands tugging at the hem of her skirt once more as we came to a stop in front of a seedy-looking motel near the coast. Although I had never been to this area before I had heard of it by reputation; many of the younger soldiers spent their short leaves here with the local girls who didn't mind their nationality so long as their money was good. I paid the driver enough to cover the trip with a bit extra for his troubles, earning a sly grin that made me feel queasy. Beatrix seemed to be faring little better, her face ashen as I opened the door of the car. She lived in this town and undoubtedly knew where we were and what inevitably happened here, and I found myself wishing that Pedar had arranged to meet us in a more reputable area. His plan had been half-formed at best and taking Beatrix to such an establishment was in line with the story I had fed the guard who had released her into my custody, but still I felt extremely uncomfortable.

Climbing out of the vehicle with a small prayer that I wouldn't run into anyone I knew, I extended my hand into the cab for my companion but she made no move to take it, instead setting her chin at a stubborn angle. "Get out of the car or you'll be back in the Gestapo headquarters to go through processing," I hissed, my patience worn too thin already by our previous sparring match.

"Perhaps Gestapo headquarters is preferable to the other option," she proclaimed with a bravado that didn't quite reach her eyes; she was obviously frightened although she was desperately trying to disguise her fear.

"It's not," I murmured darkly as I allowed my hand to drop to my side, recalling how the men in my unit in the Ukraine had assaulted dozens of women. "Do you know what they do to pretty women once they've been processed and are waiting for the next transport? Stay in that car for another second and you'll find out."

All of her courage seemed to desert her and the bleak look on her face informed me that I had won our battle of wills, although I didn't feel much satisfaction about it. She crawled out of the car and wobbled a bit, obviously exhausted from her ordeal, and part of me regretted my harshness with her. "Follow me." I turned on my heel as the car pulled away from the curb and Beatrix, apparently resigned to her imagined fate, surprisingly did as she was told.

The room that Pedar had designated as our meeting place was easy to locate, situated at the corner of the building just as he had described. Beatrix leaned heavily against the brick wall as I rapped on the door, her legs seemingly incapable of supporting her exhausted body any longer. "Pedar's been very worried about you," I muttered in a feeble attempt to prove that I had no desire to do her any harm, my mood still sour from the day's events.

"What did you say?" she gasped in surprise, but before I could explain anything further the door swung open and I was nearly bowled over in Pedar's haste to embrace her. I watched uncomfortably as he murmured something that I couldn't quite hear before kissing her soundly, Beatrix sobbing in relief as she caressed his scarred neck and face with a familiar intimacy that caused me to avert my eyes in embarrassment.

"I should go," I mumbled, eager to leave now that I had reunited the couple. Their emotional display and obvious devotion to one another made me feel ill at ease, although I could not exactly explain why that was the case. "I need to finish packing…"

"Do you have to leave so soon?" Pedar asked, resting his chin against the top of Beatrix's head as she clung to him. "Perhaps we could talk, catch up a bit—"

"I need to go." Even though part of me missed the friendship that we had once shared, the rational part of my mind knew that there could be no camaraderie between us now. We had both made our choices – Pedar would stay here, no doubt continuing to flaunt the authority of the State, and soon I would be in France where I would work against people just like him. I had to cut the final ties with my past now, before I found it impossible to do so. "Goodbye Pedar."

"I don't know how to thank you!" he called after me as I began to retrace my steps to the deserted road that led into town.

I pretended that I didn't hear him.

* * *

_Author's Note: I have finally dedicated a section on my site to this story, so if you'd like to learn more about the events described, read some of the sources used, go click-happy with some links, or just look at the pictures that have inspired me, click on the link in my profile. :)_


	4. Chapter 1: The Brotherhood

_Author's Note: Thank you to Gaston Leroux for PotO, Jamie L. Vaughan for the idea of setting PotO in WW2, Schattenfreude for the idea of having Christine as a resistance worker and Erik as a Nazi infiltrator, Mr. Robert S. for sharing his memories of WW2 and the French Resistance with me, and everyone who reads this. :)  
_

_This story is lovingly dedicated to Shay, for without her this story never would have existed. _

_Many squishy thanks to my beta, Jennyfair, who has earned her angels wings several times over by now! Special thanks for her mad French skills and her knowledge about winter weather in Paris.  
_

_And finally - this chapter is dedicated to the other bad eggs and the good piece of bacon!_

**

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****January 5, 1943 – Paris, France – Erik**

During the day Paris seemed to be barely affected by the occupation, the streets crowded with throngs of people who chattered about every possible topic except the war. Only the obvious shortages of such necessities as food and clothing drew any attention to the subject that so many were determined to avoid openly discussing during the day. When night fell, however, the city became another place entirely with most of the sidewalks deserted and the blackout curtains tightly drawn across every window; it was only then that it became acceptable to mention the war and people spoke of little else until sunrise signaled that it was once again time to pretend that nothing was out of the ordinary.

It was somewhat surprising to me that I preferred the fast-paced bustle during the day to the eerie silence of the night. After I had grown accustomed to the noise and crush of people I had discovered that I enjoyed pushing my way through the crowded streets during the late afternoon, my masked face drawing little attention from anyone. I was just another disfigured veteran who hid his features from the world, one of the many who had flocked to the city in order to lose ourselves in the anonymity that Paris offered us.

My only real complaint was the frigid winter air that made my lungs ache if I breathed too much of it, but so far I had been fortunate and had not developed any painful chest colds this winter. Today had even been warm enough for me to go outside without a scarf wrapped tightly around my face, and the bright rays of the sun had melted most of the snow that had covered the ground for nearly a week. If I hadn't been required to work tonight I would have spent the evening enjoying the view from my apartment's balcony, but duty prevented me from doing as I wished. Instead I found myself waiting inside an unmarked sedan for SS-Strmbf. Adrian Klein to join me. I would have preferred to ride with the Gestapo soldiers in the standard trucks to the site of tonight's raid, but he had insisted that we ride separately to the apartment building.

I suspected that he was using the opportunity to show off his newly acquired promotion and the assigned car that had come with it, although I had no proof of my suspicions. I had been introduced to him shortly after my arrival in Paris and had instantly disliked the man, although I could find no real problems with his actions as either a soldier or an officer. He was ruthlessly efficient when it came to following orders, something that I normally appreciated in a man, but the intense glee that he seemed to derive from violence irked me in a way that I could not quite explain. The only thing I could truly fault him for was his tendency to be ruled by his temper and pride rather than by logic, but this described half of the officers I had met in the past few months.

Finally the front door of the building swung open and one of Klein's assistants popped outside, hastily brushing away the slush from the stairs as Klein snarled his disapproval that the task had not being completed earlier in the day. I could not help but notice the way that he leaned heavily upon the metal railing as he hesitantly stepped forward; he had broken his ankle chasing a fugitive several weeks ago and it had still not fully healed.

"I don't need a damned cane or your help!" he growled as he shook away his underling's feeble attempts to assist him down the remaining stairs. "I'm not an invalid for god's sake." Klein gave the unfortunate man one last withering glare before climbing into the car, greeting me with a curt nod before signaling the driver that it was time to leave.

"Perhaps you should listen to the doctor and use your crutches," I observed dryly as the driver took a turn too fast, causing Klein to grunt as his booted foot bumped against mine.

"And perhaps you shouldn't worry about things that don't concern you," he grumbled as he folded his arms across his chest, his frown unable to disguise the pain that he was obviously experiencing from the jarring ride. "An officer should never show weakness in front of his men."

"I'm not one of your men," I snapped, rolling my eyes as he parroted one of the maxims that had no doubt been drilled into his head during his officer's training courses. I wondered if the men who were responsible for creating such slogans had ever been in the trenches themselves. "Momentarily forgetting your pride is more appealing than losing your foot to infection, let me assure you."

He snorted at my warning but his eyes drifted towards my right arm. "I didn't notice at first, you know," he confided after a moment, gesturing towards the false limb resting stiffly across my lap.

"That's because you were too busy looking down your nose at me," I replied sarcastically, although I meant no insult with my words. He had initially mistaken me for a French collaborator when we had first become acquainted, as I had been in civilian clothing. _Perhaps that is why he irks me so_, I mused silently as he offered a sheepish grin in apology. Even in Denmark I had been treated as a man of status, so it had been a shock to be dismissed rudely by men whom I outranked because they did not know my true identity.

"I think it is a compliment that I mistook you for a _collaborateur_, don't you agree? Obviously you were doing a great job if you managed to trick me." His attempts to use French phrases never ceased to amuse me as his accent was so mangled that I could imagine my childhood tutors cringing in horror.

"Didn't they teach you to never underestimate your opponents in officer's training?" Klein's amiability had finally worn me down enough that I could tease him in return, which caused him to chuckle as the car rolled to a stop in front of our intended target.

"I won't make that mistake again with you," he assured me as he adjusted his hat into its proper position, reaching for a flashlight from the box of supplies that occupied the front seat. "Hopefully this won't turn into something complicated – for once I would like a raid to be completely smooth." He gave me a smart salute before exiting the car, trudging across the slushy street with only a faint limp now that his men could view him approaching.

I rolled down a window to watch the scene unfold even though the vehicle was still idling and the warm air would inevitably escape into the chillier night. I could hear the booted feet of the Gestapo soldiers crunching through the mixture of snow and ice that covered the sidewalks and wondered if the residents of the block were peeking around their blackout curtains to see which of their neighbors would disappear next. For half a second I speculated about what it would be like to be on the opposite side of those dark apartment windows, but I brushed the thought away before I had an opportunity to dwell upon it. There was no room for empathy in the line of work I had chosen.

I could not hear Klein's words but I could imagine them anyway, as I had observed so many raids in the past months that I could not remember how many there had been. He held his nightstick above his head, his face ruddy from a mixture of excitement and exposure to the colder air, and at that moment I could not recognize that serious soldier as the man who had joked with me only a few minutes before. The weapon slapped against his gloved palm with a dull thud and in an instant the door to the apartment building was broken down and all of the men except Klein rushed inside. He remained upon the stairs, craning his neck impatiently as the shouts of the unlucky occupants of one apartment in particular filled the previously quiet night, and I had no doubt that he was wishing with all of his might that he was capable of leading his men instead of entrusting the mission to a junior officer.

A quick movement near an alley across the street immediately caught my attention and I scooted across the seat to wipe away the fog upon the glass that obscured my view. The shadow had slipped into the cover of darkness by the time I cleared the window, if it had ever been there at all. _It's probably just a curious onlooker, perhaps one of the soldiers who is in charge of patrolling the area to enforce the curfew_, I thought to myself even as I opened the door of the vehicle. _But if it's not…_

I grabbed the last flashlight from the box of gear before jogging across the road, deliberately ignoring Klein as he called something I couldn't quite hear. I leaned heavily against one of the brick buildings that flanked the alley, gasping for air as my lungs protested from the sudden strain, and watched the beam illuminate the narrow space as I searched for anything suspicious. I had almost decided that I had completely imagined it until I heard a small shuffling noise behind a pile of trash at the end of the alley. "Don't move!" I ordered as I rushed forward, so focused on the task at hand that I didn't pause to wonder how I would manage to subdue anyone.

I had neglected to wear my boots since I had not planned on being outside tonight, the slick soles of my civilian soles no match for patches of ice. I felt myself sliding but was unable to stop, falling face-first into the layer of snow that blanketed the alley. I scrambled to my feet and groped for the flashlight that I had dropped, hurriedly attempting to wipe away the slushy material that covered the front of my body as I continued to pursue my target. Kicking away some of the refuse at the end of the alley, I soon discovered that the person whom I had seen lurking at the entrance of the alley was nothing more than a hissing stray cat with a litter of kittens.

"Well that's great," I grumbled as I quickly swept the rest of the area with the beam of my flashlight, finding nothing but several heaps of discarded junk. I grunted in defeat and hoped that no one else had observed my folly, placing the flashlight atop a metal barrel and glancing around the alley once more. Satisfied that I was indeed alone, I hastily removed my mask and rubbed my exposed face with the end of my scarf before wiping the inside of the mask clean. I was nearly finished with my task when I heard someone entering the alley behind me.

"What are you doing over here?" Klein puffed as I instinctively ducked and shielded my face from view, although rationally I knew that he couldn't possibly see me from his position. "I asked you where you were going but you didn't answer—"

"Don't come any closer," I snapped as I fumbled with the mask, my fingers trembling so badly that it took more time than I usually required to slip it in place. "I saw something moving in the shadows and I came to investigate."

"What was it?" he questioned as he lowered the flashlight at last, giving me the feeling of privacy I needed to regain my composure. I took a few deep breaths and smoothed my wig to assure myself that everything was where it should be.

"It was a cat," I muttered, scowling as Klein guffawed loudly enough to wake the entire city. "Oh shut up, it's not that funny." I swung around to glare at him as he attempted to stifle his mirth.

"You're right of course, SS-OStrmbf. von Helm. That cat could be a spy for the French underground!" He burst out laughing once again, causing me to grit my teeth to prevent myself from snapping at him.

"Did everything go well?" I questioned icily as I stalked past him, not waiting for him to fall in step beside me. "Since you have the time to waste mocking me I assume that everyone was captured as planned."

"No sir," he replied with a sigh, once again becoming the somber soldier that I had observed just before the raid. "Scharführer Rudolf informed me that only seven men were present tonight in the apartment."

"There should have been eight. Who is missing?" I stopped in the middle of the alley and motioned for him to come closer.

"I can't be certain yet, but I believe it is a man named Joseph Buquet." I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was displeased that Buquet had slipped from his grasp; he had a meeting with SS-Staf. Knochen tomorrow morning to inform him of the unit's progress and he was quite aware that Knochen was the type of man to dismiss a hundred successes to dwell upon one failure.

"The fool can't keep his mouth shut, I have no doubt that he will be turning up soon enough. Besides, he was completely insignificant to the operations of the _Confrérie_." I had only met the head of Paris security a few times but he had struck me as a fairly reasonable man; perhaps that piece of information would make the meeting go more smoothly.

"I'll tell him that, although I'm not sure it will make a difference. Hopefully his new project will distract him – when I spoke with him yesterday he seemed quite excited about it. I recommended you for the position." I could almost see Klein's back stiffening with pride and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at his eagerness. "Aren't you going to ask me about it?"

"No," I muttered as I began to stroll towards the alley's entrance once again. "I'm certain that I'll learn about it eventually if you want me to take the assignment – and I have no doubt that you do, since it will benefit you as well if I do a good job."

He chuckled as if I had made a joke, slapping me playfully on the back with so much force that I nearly stumbled. "You are either the most droll man I have ever met or the most irritable, I haven't been able to decide yet." He nodded towards the group of fellow officers who were chatting with one another near Klein's new automobile. "You should join us tonight, you know. We're going to a cabaret – a French one, not like the ones we have at home. There'll be a lot of pretty girls."

I waited for him to make a snide comment about how the women there cared little about a man's looks as long as he had money in his pocket, just as so many others had done in the twenty-odd years since I had been wounded in Belgium, but the expression on his face seemed earnest enough. "Cabarets don't interest me," I replied after a moment, glancing down at my wet clothing with distaste. "They're filled with smoke and the slop that you call music."

"And that is precisely why I told SS-Staf. Knochen that you are the perfect man to infiltrate the resistance effort in the Paris Opera House," Klein explained without any hint of malice, one corner of his mouth twitching as he tried not to smile. "You're the only person I know who would _enjoy_ sitting through operas for months, SS-OStrmbf von Helm." Offering me a sharp salute before I had the chance to respond to his good-natured barb, he trotted across the street to join the other officers for their night of carousing.

_The Paris Opera…_

I smiled beneath my mask and was relieved that Klein couldn't see that his tantalizing offer had captured my interest after all.

* * *

_Author's Note: I have finally dedicated a section on my site to this story, so if you'd like to learn more about the events described, read some of the sources used, go click-happy with some links, or just look at the pictures that have inspired me, click on the link in my profile. :)_

_To be brief, the following liberties have been taken: Adrian Klein is a completely fictional character but Knochen is not (although his personality probably is). The __Confrérie is a fictional resistance cell but is based upon real resistance efforts. Thank you to Jenn for the French assistance and weather help!_


	5. Chapter 2: The Angel

_Author's Note: Thank you to Gaston Leroux for PotO, Jamie L. Vaughan for the idea of setting PotO in WW2, Schattenfreude for the idea of having Christine as a resistance worker and Erik as a Nazi infiltrator, Mr. Robert S. for sharing his memories of WW2 and the French Resistance with me, and everyone who reads this. :)  
_

_This story is lovingly dedicated to Shay, for without her this story never would have existed. _

_Many squishy thanks to my beta, Jennyfair, who puts up with me when no one else does. ;)  
_

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**January 9, 1943 – Paris, France – Erik**

Self-consciously attempting to straighten my tie, I cleared my throat and fervently hoped that I appeared more dignified than I felt at the moment. As a young man I had worked at the _Hamburgische Staatsoper _and had always chuckled at the lovestruck fools who had jammed the hallways after a performance to catch a glimpse of their favorite singers or dancers; I had always sworn that I would never place myself in such a position, yet here I stood scanning the thinning crowds for the woman who had caught my interest, feeling stupid and out of place. Only my pride kept me from bolting out the nearest door and completely forgetting the haphazard plan I had developed while listening to tonight's rendition of Pfitzner's _Palestrina_.

When I had accepted my latest assignment I had renamed myself Anatole Delacroix, something of an inside joke because the meaning of the names: Anatole, or "of the east," for my origins and Delacroix, or "of the cross," in honor of the Iron Cross that had been awarded to me many years ago. I had decided to masquerade as a French composer who was originally from northeastern France and had only recently relocated to Paris. I had discovered that one of the managers of the Opera, Firmin Richard, had been paralyzed in the Great War — a valuable piece of information that I intended to exploit to my advantage; he was rumored to be a difficult and temperamental man but I doubted that he would be able to turn away a fellow veteran in need. It irked me that I would be forced to beg for a job that I didn't need, especially since I had spent the last twenty-five years of my life showing everyone that I could be successful without pity or assistance, but I could see no other way to gain his trust.

I had gone to yesterday evening's performance to survey my new surroundings and to arrange a proper introduction to Richard that didn't seem suspicious. I had been surprised to discover that they were putting on _Palestrina_, the first opera I had worked on while a stagehand in Hamburg, but I had left last night's performance feeling rather disappointed. The cast had been rather mediocre and several of the actors had been required to fill two or more roles because of the shortage of competent male leads, making me wonder why the managers had ever decided upon that particular opera in the first place. The only two exceptions had been the soprano playing Ighino, Palestrina's son – the famous La Carlotta according to the program that I had received, who in my opinion had an excellent range but sang without any passion at all – and one of the apparitions. She had certainly looked like an angel with her long blonde curls and delicate features, but it had been her voice that had truly captured my attention. She had a few problems that needed definite improvement, but her voice was one of the purest sounding I had ever encountered in my musical career. My gaze had wandered towards the little blonde apparition during curtain calls and had I been able to clap I would have done so for her.

I had left the Opera without finding Richard, but as I walked back to the new flat that had been given to me for this mission I had found my thoughts focusing upon the young soprano instead of my assignment. I had wondered if she had a private tutor or if she relied solely upon whatever she had learned in impersonal classes, then wondered why I cared at all. I had forced myself to concentrate upon more pressing matters and had gone to bed quite irritated that my plans hadn't unfolded as I had hoped.

This morning I had prepared myself for the inevitable blow to my pride that would come and had been determined to speak with Richard before I left the Opera tonight. I would have followed the strategy I had contrived had I not had the misfortune of being seated beside three rowdy soldiers who chattered throughout the entire performance; their comments had been particularly lewd when the nameless angelic apparition that had so captured my attention the previous day made her entrance. I had silently seethed as I watched her stumble through the role, her voice just as pure and desperate for proper training as it had been the night before, and after she had delivered her lines I began to form another, more reckless plan. By the time the cast took their bows my mind was completely made up – I would offer the girl the instruction she needed to become Paris' next diva.

I had never had a pupil before and had never wanted to acquire one, but the thought of her raw talent languishing undiscovered and unappreciated, only receiving attention from half-drunken soldiers who saw her as nothing more than a pretty girl, was beyond what the artist within me could bear. I had quickly decided that it would be no hardship for me to devote a few mornings a week to voice lessons, and the fact that she could provide the excuse I needed to spend time at the Opera did not escape my attention either. It would be far more reasonable for me to offer my services to her and actually accomplish something worthwhile instead of toiling away at a menial job, and much less damaging to my ego as well.

But now as I nervously waited outside what was presumably the stage exit I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of my rash decision to offer someone whose name I didn't even know such a personal part of myself. I couldn't begin to explain to myself why I cared if she squandered her gifts or not – how could I possibly explain it to her without sounding like an idiot? A few giggling ballet rats dashed past me and instinctively I shrank further into the shadows, wondering why I hadn't prepared what I would say if I did manage to recognize her tonight – I was usually far more thorough than this. What if she was accompanied by a group of friends? Would I be able to find the courage to approach her even if she were alone? Women had always made me uncomfortable, even when I had been a young boy with a completely presentable face, and I would much rather be marching into battle right now than standing in this hallway waiting for her.

My determination fading fast, I mentally branded myself a coward as I swung around to search for the nearest door that would allow me to escape into the blissfully anonymous world that lay just outside the Opera's walls and promptly slammed into the object of my confused thoughts with so much force that she stumbled backwards a few steps. I impulsively reached for her to prevent her from falling to the floor and she clung to my prosthetic limb fiercely as she steadied herself. I could feel the heat of a blush spreading across my face and was thankful that I could hide behind my mask as I attempted to stutter out a hasty apology, embarrassed not only by my ungraceful actions but also by the small hands that still gripped my right arm.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you standing there," she offered after a moment of awkward silence, twisting her lips into a nervous smile. "I have a hard time adjusting to the darkness after a performance, the stage is so brightly lit." She glanced down and apparently realized that she was still clutching my arm, for she quickly released my sleeve from her grip and looked away. I waited for her to react in the predictable way, to blurt out something that would convey pity or morbid curiosity, but instead she only fiddled with the tattered lace collar of the robe she wore over her stage costume. "Are you searching for someone? Perhaps I can help."

"Actually—" The word was barely a squeak and I cleared my throat again, tugging at my own collar as I felt my cheeks grow even hotter. "Actually, I was hoping to run into you – well, not _run_ into you, although I seem to have accomplished that anyway…" I focused my gaze upon the slippers that she wore, noting that they were just as worn and ragged as her robe, and I idly wondered how much an angelic apparition earned. "Please, forgive my lack of manners – my name is Anatole Delacroix and I thoroughly enjoyed your performance this evening."

She appeared genuinely surprised by my words, the exposed area of her neck where the thick stage makeup had worn off turning pink as she twisted her collar even more roughly. "Oh, thank you," she mumbled as if unsure how to respond to my faint praise. "Are you certain that you wished to speak with _me_? I only played one of the angels…"

"That could change if you fixed a few problems – you had some trouble with the highest notes and didn't have nearly enough breath support – but if set your mind to improving you would be perfect as Ighino." I watched her eyes widen and I supposed that she had taken offense to my blunt observations, but if she were to become my student she would have to learn how to accept criticism as well as compliments. "You have an impressive voice that just needs some refining to become exquisite, Mademoiselle…"

"Daaé," she supplied meekly, blushing so profusely that I could discern the noticeably pink tint beneath her made-up cheeks before she ducked her head shyly. "That is very kind of you to say, Monsieur Delacroix, but La Carlotta is the leading soprano here, and even if she weren't I couldn't possibly replace her."

"That's nonsense – with the proper instruction you could have all of Paris at your feet, if that is your wish. Tell me, have you a tutor?" I seized the opportunity to broach my true reason for making a fool of myself in the hallway, uncaring if I sounded inappropriately bold.

"Are you suggesting that my education at the Conservatory wasn't sufficient?" she asked with a nervous laugh, running a hand through her hair self-consciously as she confirmed my suspicions that she had received no personalized instruction recently, if ever.

"Everyone has room for improvement and nothing encourages it more than dedicated coaching from a private tutor, Mlle Daaé. Please, allow me to offer you my services – I have only recently moved to the city but I have been involved in music for most of my life, and you have one of the most captivating voices I have ever had heard. It would be a pleasure for me to tutor such a promising pupil." Her back stiffened slightly even before I had finished my offer and I had a feeling that this wasn't going to be as easy as I had first believed.

"That is very generous of you, Monsieur, but I cannot possibly afford a tutor on my salary." The accent that she had nearly managed to hide during most of our conversation was becoming more pronounced now, another clear indication that I had accidentally upset her with my proposition.

"I wouldn't charge you a franc, Mlle Daaé, you have my word – I have no need for your money and only wish to ensure that you live up to your full potential," I quickly added, only realizing after I had blurted out the hasty assurance that I had compromised the cover story that I had created for this assignment. It would be impossible for me to pretend to be so desperate for employment if I were offering to tutor someone without compensation, and now I would either have to convince her to accept my services or craft some other plausible scenario to explain my interest in the Opera.

"That is very nice of you," she murmured as she wrung her hands, "but I can't possibly – I'm sure you're a very nice man but I don't know you at all, and a young woman in Paris must be very careful, especially now – I'm sorry, please understand." She did seem genuinely apologetic and I could see the wisdom of her reasoning, although I still felt disappointed that she hadn't been more eager to agree to become my student. I had actually been looking forward to molding her voice into the exceptional instrument that I knew it could become.

"You don't have to make a decision tonight – please, think about it." I tried to keep my tone light and earned a small smile from her in return.

"I will…thank you, you are far too generous." She placed the back of her hand against her mouth to stifle a yawn and I realized just how late it must be. "Please excuse me, I'm exhausted – but thank you again for your offer and your kind words, I truly appreciate it. It was a pleasure meeting you – good night."

"Good night," I murmured, bowing slightly as she bestowed one last smile in my direction before shuffling down the completely deserted hallway. When she reached the corner she glanced over her shoulder and waved at me before darting away, causing me to smile as I began searching for an exit door. _She'll be my pupil by the end of the month._

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_Author's Note: The Paris Opera House's management was not involved in the resistance effort, so the events that take place in the building from this point onward are completely fictional.__  
_


	6. Chapter 3: A New Path

_Author's Note: Thank you to Gaston Leroux for PotO, Jamie L. Vaughan for the idea of setting PotO in WW2, Schattenfreude for the idea of having Christine as a resistance worker and Erik as a Nazi infiltrator, Mr. Robert S. for sharing his memories of WW2 and the French Resistance with me, and everyone who reads this. :)  
_

_This story is lovingly dedicated to Shay, for without her this story never would have existed. _

_Many squishy thanks to my beta, Jennyfair of the user-friendly green font._

* * *

**January 1943 – Paris, France – Christine**

I tried to keep myself from smiling as I wrapped my dressing gown around me and slipped into my well-worn flats, but inside I felt like singing – something that I hadn't felt since my father had died. It was strange to think that the awkward man I had met a few weeks ago was responsible for the change, but for some reason that I couldn't quite explain Anatole Delacroix had quickly become a fixture in my life. Perhaps it was because he seemed to be genuinely interested in my voice, unlike the other men who had tried to meet me backstage, or perhaps it was because he appeared to be just as lonely as I felt.

It was only after I had met him that I had realized just how isolated I was here in Paris, without any family members or close friends of my own, and how thrilling it could be to have someone waiting for me after a performance. My father had died before I had graduated from the Conservatory and Mama Valérius had always been too ill to leave our flat for more than a few minutes at a time, and although I had said that it didn't matter that no one came to hear me sing I had only lied to myself. It _did_ matter, at least to me, and hearing Anatole's blunt comments about my technique, even when he was critical of something, made me happier than I had been in a long while.

A few of the ballet rats raced past me, nearly knocking me down in their hurry to leave, but I was in no such rush. Gossip was rampant in the Opera and I didn't want any rumors being started about the masked man who waited for me some evenings; I was a young woman who lived alone in the city and I always had to consider my reputation. _It would be simpler if you just accepted his offer of free lessons, Christine_, I reasoned as I worked my fingers through my hair, attempting to untangle the snarls that had somehow formed in the past hours. _No one would think it inappropriate for you to spend time with your tutor_.

Something stopped me from becoming his pupil, however, although I knew my excuses were flimsy. Anatole was a nice enough man, although very formal and reserved, and I doubted that he had anything but honorable intentions. Our conversations were rarely about anything except music and he was certainly knowledgeable about the subject; he had once disclosed in an uncommon moment of personal insight that he was a composer, although he hadn't written something he was proud of in quite a while. I had finally decided that it was pride alone that prevented me from accepting his offer. I had been forced to become very self-reliant after Mama had grown ill and I didn't want to admit that I could possibly need anyone except myself. I didn't wish to admit that a lack of confidence in my abilities might be playing a role in my inability to make a decision, as well.

Finally deciding that it was safe to leave the backstage area, I suppressed a chuckle as I saw Anatole in the hallway fidgeting with his tie, just as he always did while waiting for me. "I was beginning to think you were lost," he said gruffly as his hand dropped awkwardly to his side, and I ducked my head in a futile attempt to hide my grin.

"Did I do well?" I questioned lightheartedly, twirling around and nearly tripping over the hem of the long robe of my angelic apparition costume. His eyes crinkled in the corners as his lower lip curved slightly, the only visible indications that my silly antics amused him, and not for the first time I wondered what he looked like beneath his mask.

"You were flat on some of your lines," he replied in his normal, straightforward way, "but your acting has improved noticeably since last week."

"Do you think I'm good enough to be Siebel?" I asked after his silence indicated that he had nothing else to say about this evening's performance. The Opera would soon be staging _Faust_ and, for some reason I didn't quite understand, I had been given the part of Siebel while Alessandra Fucilla, the mezzo-soprano who had had the role the previous season, had been assigned the part of Marthe this year. I knew that it was a great opportunity for me and was therefore frightened beyond belief, all of my old insecurities rising to the surface once more.

He must have sensed the indecision in my question for his lower lip curved once more. "You're good enough to be Marguerite with the proper training. I suppose that La Carlotta was given the role instead?" When I nodded he sighed loudly and shook his head. "She doesn't fit the character at all – Marguerite should be sweet and modest, the audience must feel her anguish. Richard is a musician, surely he knows that she is incapable of doing the part justice."

I could feel the blood draining from my face at the mention of Monsieur Richard's name and I quickly scanned the hallway to assure myself that it was indeed deserted. Anatole seemed upset enough to actually tell him how displeased he was with La Carlotta as Marguerite and I had seen him speaking with M. Richard a couple of times, although I had no idea what they discussed. "Please, don't say anything to him about it – it's an honor for me to be cast as Siebel, I don't want anything to jeopardize it." I didn't tell him that if La Carlotta discovered that he had criticized her on my behalf the diva would make my life even more miserable than her infrequent public beratings already did.

"Richard agrees with me about Carlotta, he's just powerless to do anything about it since there's no one to replace her." An unspoken _yet_ lingered between us and I took a step backwards, his intense gaze disturbing.

"You have too much confidence in me – I can't do what you ask, I can't…" I pressed the palm of my hand against my mouth but it was already too late to prevent the words from being spoken aloud.

"If that is what you believe, then it is true," he said with a graceful shrug. "If you tell yourself that you cannot be a great diva, then you will not be a great diva. Talent is not enough, Christine Daaé, you have to want it just as much. I am not sure who told you that you were incapable or why you chose to believe them, but if you don't start ignoring those doubts you will never be anything more than you are now."

"You're asking me to do the impossible," I whispered, my chin quivering although I tried to keep it still. His words were blunt but were without malice, and even though I had not expected him to gently soothe my fears I still wished that he had tried. I stared at him, my eyes focusing on the mask that he wore, and suddenly I felt very childish. He had never discussed his injuries and although I had wanted to ask about them I never had, and now as I gazed at the thin piece of metal that hid his face I realized how silly I must seem to him. His eyes narrowed as I continued to examine his mask and I looked away, murmuring an apology.

"It's your decision," he muttered coldly, apparently offended by something, and I felt even guiltier for staring. "You will either choose to remain just as you are, or you will choose to try to become better. I just hope, whatever your choice, that you will not regret it in the future. Good evening." He offered me a stiff bow before turning to stride away, leaving me alone in the hallway.

I felt as if I had just arrived at a crossroads in my life, one that could drastically impact the rest of it. I glanced down the dimly lit corridor that led to my dressing room and imagined doing the same thing in ten years, gazing at the small framed photograph of my parents that I kept on my vanity as I did every evening. Would I be able to look at my father's eyes, realizing that I hadn't given my best and thinking of the disappointment he would surely feel if he had lived, knowing that his only daughter had not taken the opportunity to leave her mark on the world? He had died a poor, unknown musician and had sworn that I would not share his fate – but if I deliberately sabotaged myself I would fail his memory.

I recalled the fairy tales of my youth, how my father had told me about the Angel of Music and how he would visit those who were blessed with special gifts. Upon his deathbed he had promised to send the Angel of Music once he had reached heaven, and although I had been too old to believe in such myths by then I had nodded anyway, wishing to humor him. Anatole was certainly no angel, but perhaps…perhaps he _had_ been sent to me, by fate or even by my father, in order to help me become a great singer after all.

Gathering the dressing gown and costume above my knees so I would not trip, I raced down the hallway before I could change my mind. I didn't care how silly I looked as I sped down the grand staircase, rushing across the lobby before bolting through the front doors and searching the sidewalks for one solitary figure. I finally spotted him a few meters away from me, his hand shoved into his coat pocket and his shoulders hunched, and I called his name as I hopped down the stone steps. People were staring but I paid them no mind – the new Christine Daaé, the one who would become a great diva, shouldn't be bothered by such trivial things – and when I finally reached him I could see his surprise. "Please, teach me – I want to learn. I want to try."

"You'll catch a chill," he murmured, pausing for a moment before awkwardly removing his coat and dropping it onto my trembling shoulders. I didn't tell him that it was excitement and fear that made me shake, not the temperature, and he stared silently at me for several minutes before the tiny lines at the corners of his mouth relaxed. "Tomorrow at eight o'clock, here at the Opera." It was not a question and I nodded, mutely accepting my new schedule without complaint, even though I knew that my body would regret the early hour come morning.

He smiled when he wished me goodnight this time, and it was only after I had returned to my dressing room that I realized I still wore his coat.


	7. Chapter 4: Understanding

_Author's Note: Thank you to Gaston Leroux for PotO, Jamie L. Vaughan for the idea of setting PotO in WW2, Schattenfreude for the idea of having Christine as a resistance worker and Erik as a Nazi infiltrator, Mr. Robert S. for sharing his memories of WW2 and the French Resistance with me, and __everyone who reads this. :)_

_This story is lovingly dedicated to Shay, for without her this story never would have existed. _

_Many squishy thanks to my beta, Jennyfair, who corrects my pitiful attempts to use French without making me feel like an idiot, entertains my wild ideas (once again without making me feel like an idiot), and is a veritable almanac when it comes to all things about Paris.  
_

* * *

**February 1943 - Paris, France - Erik**

My mission at the Opera was going far better than I had expected or even hoped – in spite of his inhospitable reputation Richard had taken a noticeable liking to me and sometimes invited me to chat with him when his paperwork and responsibilities weren't overwhelming. I supposed that he saw me as an equal, someone with whom he could discuss his complaints about the business and understand him, for Moncharmin had obviously been appointed manager for his charm and not his technical knowledge. He had asked me yesterday if I would care for a tour of the infamous Box Five this afternoon, and although I had no idea why that box would be any different from the others I had accepted his offer. I told myself that I couldn't turn such opportunities down, but if I was truthful with myself I had to admit that it was no hardship to spend time with Richard, since he was one of the few people in the city who didn't want to speculate endlessly about the war.

I climbed the ornate staircase slowly, not wishing to be out of breath when I reached the landing; even though my lungs had healed more than the doctors had believed they ever would, I was still easily winded during the cold winter months and didn't want to appear out of shape or weak to anyone I might come across. I could see Richard waiting for me as I came to the top of the stairs and wondered how he had managed to get here at all – the only ramp I had ever seen was in an alley beside the building and was the one he used to reach his office – but in spite of my curiosity I would never ask him, for I had been subjected to the thoughtless questions of nosy people before and refused to do or say anything that would damage the friendship forming between us.

"Either you're early or my watch is slow," Richard said without preamble, sliding the timepiece from his vest pocket and poking its glass face. "I don't suppose that you know a good watchmaker? I used to go to Malachi Speyer but he was…he's no longer in Paris." He silently gazed at his watch for a few moments and I wondered about the watchmaker's fate. The Jewish question had always made me uncomfortable because I had never felt compelled to blame them for Germany's problems, especially since some of the composers I admired the most were Jews.

Richard shook his head and began to wheel away from me. "I must admit that I had an ulterior motive when I invited you up here – they're practicing for _Faust_ today and I want someone who isn't an idiot to watch the rehearsals with me." He stopped in front of an unmarked door and gave me a challenging grin. "You aren't afraid of a ghost, are you?"

"A ghost?" I echoed, glancing at the door in confusion before meeting his gaze once more. "What are you talking about?"

"Every theater has to have its own resident ghost, don't you know?" He gestured towards the door and I opened it, allowing him to enter the box first before following him. "Go ahead, sit down – I don't think _le fantôme_ will mind too much, he's never complained when I've entered his domain before."

"I still don't know what you're babbling about," I muttered irritably as I settled into one of the plush seats and stretched my legs, earning a chuckle from my companion. A few of the chorus members who were idly milling around on the stage glanced in our direction before returning to their conversations.

"Oh, you know how suspicious performers can be – everything's about luck and fate. It seems that several decades ago there was a rumor that the place was haunted by a ghost and that he requested this box be kept for his personal use. A stagehand committed suicide in a hall near your protégée's dressing room and everyone attributed it to the phantom, along with a series of other mishaps. It's a lot of hogwash but damned if I can sell this box most nights, and when I do it's usually to a bunch of rowdy soldiers who want to see the ghost and are angry when nothing happens. I don't even bother now." He laughed and smoothed his mustache with one finger. "It's yours if you want it for the season and don't mind sharing it with our resident specter."

"That is very kind of you," I replied, surprised by his generous offer, but before I could say anything more the répétiteur appeared and announced that the rehearsal was beginning at the second act. It was only then that I noticed that Christine was standing at the edge of the stage alone, looking out of place and uncomfortable, and not for the first time I wondered how she could enjoy being a performer when she was so shy most of the time. In the past few weeks I had discovered that she was a nice enough girl but very lonely, something that I had sensed after our first meeting and had used to cultivate her trust in me, and it often appeared that she would rather spend our time talking together than practicing. She refused to take herself too seriously and didn't seem to have the strength or drive needed to be anything more than a chorus girl, although she still claimed that she wanted to become a diva.

I listened to the actor playing Marguerite's brother Valentin pray for his sister's protection while he went away to war and couldn't prevent myself from rolling my eyes. "If Carlotta were truly his sibling, I think he'd do better to be praying for protection _from_ her," I whispered to Richard as the icy Spanish diva berated the young baritone for hitting a flat note, earning a chuckle from my companion and a pointed glare from the répétiteur, who had apparently heard the manager's outburst. Christine followed his steely gaze and our eyes met for a brief moment, and she offered me a wobbly smile before focusing upon rehearsals once more.

I settled back into my chair and tried to watch the scene with an unbiased eye, but I was unable to keep from paying attention to Christine. Some time in the past few weeks I had stopped seeing her as only a means to accomplish a goal and had begun to view her as a person, someone not so unlike myself at her age. I knew from personal experience how discouraging it could be to be constantly told that your dreams were unattainable, and I wondered again how many times she had been told that she would be nothing more than a member of the chorus. "Do you think that Christine will have the opportunity to be Marguerite at all during this production?" I murmured as I leaned closer to Richard's ear.

He shrugged his shoulders, not taking his eyes away from the rehearsal in progress. "Carlotta usually throws a fit at least once and threatens to walk out, but Moncharmin always calms her down enough to prevent a disaster of epic proportions." His voice was laced with sarcasm and I was certain that I could convince him to give Christine the opportunity once it prevented itself.

"Perhaps the next time she has a tantrum you should let her go," I said smoothly, watching the baritone playing Valentin struggle with the phrasing of a few lines, bringing the rehearsal to a stop again. "She's not the only one in the world who can sing Marguerite."

"But is she the only one in Paris?" Richard questioned quietly, neither of us wishing to draw attention to our conversation. "You have to give me a suitable understudy to replace her if you want me to take the chance with your protégée. I refuse to issue refunds to everyone because she bleated her way through the part."

"Have more faith in me than that," I muttered, a bit put off by his attitude although I knew that it had merit. "She has a great deal of promise, she just needs to be taught how to use her voice properly. She really does have a lovely tone, perhaps the best I've ever heard."

"I do believe you," Richard replied with a nod, his dark eyes fixed upon Christine. "Have you ever heard of Professor Valérius?" I shook my head, unsure why he had suddenly changed the topic. "He was a mathematics professor at the Sorbonne and had very little interest in music, but his wife – ah, his wife loved the arts, and he loved his wife. He assisted me quite a bit when I was a struggling composer, on his wife's behalf since she admired my work a great deal – he was the one who helped me obtain my post here." Richard smiled broadly at the memory and said nothing for several minutes, lost in the past.

"Anyway, one summer he took her to the sea, such little trips always seemed to boost her spirits, and when they returned they brought back with them a Swedish violinist and his daughter – Christine, you understand. He invited me to a small party after I had been appointed manager, and she sang with her father accompanying her on the violin – to hear such a voice in a girl so young! Madame Valérius told me that I should hire the girl once she was finished at the Conservatory, that she showed such great talent, and I agreed at the time, but then her father died and she seemed to lose all will to sing." Richard's smile faded as he watched Christine move hesitantly into place on stage. "The Professor died shortly thereafter, and his wife spent most of their money relocating their relatives – they were Jewish, you know, the Valériuses – and they were left with very little. When Christine graduated from the Conservatory I immediately hired her as a sort of repayment for the kindness that the Professor had shown to me, but she hasn't regained her bearings yet, especially since Mme Valérius is gone now as well."

Richard shifted in his wheeled chair until he was facing me, and there was no mistaking the warning in his eyes. "I've done my best to watch out for Christine since the Professor's death. She's very naïve and vulnerable, as I'm sure you've discovered, and she is alone in the world. If I thought that you had any ill intentions towards her I would have no difficulty telling you that you are no longer welcome here." His face relaxed after he said his piece and he turned back towards the stage. "I have far more faith in you than you may realize, and believe me when I say that I genuinely hope that you are able to help her sing like she used to do." His speech apparently finished, Richard turned back towards the stage and laughed as the actor playing Valentin nearly tripped over his sword.

I remained silent as I watched the rehearsal progress, considering Richard's words and all of the things he had disclosed about Christine's past. She had told me about her father, she had his picture on the vanity in her dressing room and mentioned him at least once every time I saw her, but as I watched her traipse around the stage I could not help but think that a whole new side of my pupil had been revealed to me. Our histories seemed much more alike now, and for the first time I felt a shade of guilt about my ulterior motives for introducing myself to her. I looked at the man sitting beside me – perhaps I had ill intentions towards his operation here, but I had none for Christine personally.

My friendship with Richard was developing much more quickly than I had anticipated, for I had not expected to establish a rapport with him so easily, and I realized that I no longer had any true need to be Christine's tutor. I could tell her that I had changed my mind or that I simply could not afford to have a student without being paid for my work. She would probably be hurt, yes, but I supposed that she would manage to find her way in the world just as she always had. I focused on her as she began to sing Siebel's "Faites-lui mes aveux," her voice pure as ever but her lack of breath control all the more apparent, and selfishly I did not want to do what was the noble thing. I _wanted_ to be her teacher, I wanted to mold that voice into the beautiful instrument that I knew it could be.

It was obvious to me that she was growing tired, and when Richard pulled out his watch I was surprised to learn that hours had passed. Eventually the répétiteur signaled that the rehearsal was over and singled out a few of the performers to give them special instructions on which parts they should practice. I noticed that he passed over Christine without comment, and as Carlotta strode off the stage she hissed something that I could not hear; judging from Christine's flushed cheeks, however, she had heard the diva clearly and whatever verbal jab had been issued was directed at her.

"Would you like to go to dinner, Delacroix?" Richard questioned as he withdrew his pocket watch once more and shined its face with his shirtsleeve, shaking the timepiece as if such rough treatment would fix it. "I know a wonderful restaurant only a few blocks from here, they serve the best lamb you've ever tasted."

It was a great opportunity for me, as Richard had never invited me to join him outside of the Opera before, and I knew that I should use it to my full advantage, but I couldn't stop thinking about how Christine had rushed from the stage after the apparent insult. She was inconsequential to my mission here but I found myself shaking my head anyway. "Perhaps another day," I replied with genuine regret, "I have something that I need to attend to right now."

It was strange to see the hallways of the Opera so deserted at such an hour; my lessons with Christine were always in the morning, and when I was in the building during the evening to attend a performance the halls were normally packed with performers, stagehands, and patrons. My footsteps sounded eerily loud to my own ears as I thought about what Richard had told me about Christine. It was obvious that they weren't close – if he truly cared a great deal for her he would do more to stop Carlotta's verbal attacks, which Christine had informed me were growing in number – and I wondered if my pupil was even aware that she had been hired as a personal favor. I felt something suspiciously like pity as I knocked on the door to her dressing room, listening to her cross the wooden floor before hesitantly opening the door a fraction to peek outside.

"Anatole!" she exclaimed with audible surprise, her swollen eyes betraying her emotional state. I tugged at the collar of my shirt uncomfortably, unsure of how to deal with this particular situation – I had been trained how to handle many dangerous objects by the army, but a crying woman was something that I felt was out of my league. "I thought that you had already left."

"No, I – I thought that I'd come by to address some of your problems at rehearsal today." It was easier for me to retreat into the formality of being her teacher, and I lowered my hand to my side as she stepped back from the door to allow me to enter the room. I noticed that the portrait of her parents was facedown on the vanity, although I did not comment upon it. I wondered if she thought that they disapproved of her, especially her father, and I could no longer deny that I felt sorry for her. _It's strange_, I thought to myself as she locked the door behind us, _for years I thought that no one would ever be able to understand me.._.

Instead of making my sympathy known, however, I launched into a discussion of how she could improve her breathing, and even though her eyes were obediently trained on me I could tell that she wasn't listening. Normally I would have been irritated by her lack of concentration, but I found myself deliberately gentling my voice. "Christine," I said in what I hoped passed as a kind tone, "you're not paying attention to a word I'm saying."

"What? Oh, I'm sorry Anatole, I just…" Her voice cracked and she hurriedly turned away from me, discretely wiping her eyes before walking over to her vanity to stare at the frame that held her father's picture. "Can we talk about this tomorrow? I'm not feeling very good right now." Carefully she picked up the frame and held it close to her chest for several minutes before placing it upright on the vanity once again. She sounded exhausted and I felt my unease returning – it was as if this was some new chapter in our relationship and I didn't know quite how to explain it to myself. I looked outside the small window that offered a partial view of the rue Gluck and watched a mother usher her children through a crosswalk, for some reason reminding me of a group of ducks.

"I haven't been in Paris very long," I said casually, continuing to peer out the window. "I haven't had a chance to venture into the city properly yet – would you like to go for a walk and show me around? It's a bit chilly outside but the sun is still shining."

"I don't know, I – maybe another time, Anatole," Christine mumbled as I turned around to face her, patting her face nervously. "I think I should just go back to my apartment for the night."

"Then allow me to walk you home," I insisted, reaching for her worn jacket and holding it out to her. "I really haven't explored much of the city past the few blocks that separate my apartment from the Opera."

"It isn't a short walk, I usually take the métro," Christine replied after a few moments of hesitation, taking her coat from me and shrugging into it. My stomach rumbled audibly and I thought about the lamb that Richard had mentioned earlier, causing Christine to smile. "I do know a wonderful restaurant near my apartment if you're interested," she offered almost shyly, and although I rarely ate in public I accepted her invitation.


	8. Chapter 5: Melancholy

_Author's Note: Thank you to Gaston Leroux for PotO, Jamie L. Vaughan for the idea of setting PotO in WW2, Schattenfreude for the idea of having Christine as a resistance worker and Erik as a Nazi infiltrator, Mr. Robert S. for sharing his memories of WW2 and the French Resistance with me, and __everyone who reads this. :)_

_This story is lovingly dedicated to Shay, for without her this story never would have existed. _

_Many squishy thanks to my beta, Jennyfair, who is always willing to share her knowledge of the French language and culture with me, and who is the reigning google queen. She recently got an account on this site, so if you're looking for some well-written Phantom stories to read I highly recommend that you check out her profile!_

_A brasserie is kind of like a cross between a cafe and a restaurant - don't mistake it for something else. ;)  
_

* * *

**late February 1943 - Paris, France - Christine**

My mouth began to water as I saw our waiter weaving through the crowded _brasserie _with our lunch upon his tray. I had ordered the sausage, something that seemed to always be in supply no matter how the food shortages affected the menu, and after the waiter left I nudged the plate towards Anatole, indicating that he should help himself if he wanted a bite.

My companion pushed the plate back in my direction without taking any of the sausage, instead plucking a slice of plain wheat bread from the basket. It had become our new custom to have lunch together after our lessons, although Anatole rarely consumed anything more than a few bites of bread. I had not asked him why, but I had noticed how difficult it was for him to chew and had determined that it had something to do with his mask or the injuries it concealed.

"Thank you for lunch," I said as I picked up my knife and began to carefully cut the sausage into thin slices. It was the only meal that I would have today and I wanted it to last as long as possible; the food shortages in Paris were more severe for those of us who didn't have the money to spend on luxuries. My guardians had left me a small annuity, but when combined with my wages from the Opera I could only rarely afford to splurge.

"You can pay me back when you are a rich diva," he answered with a casual wave of his hand, just as he always did. Anatole had informed me that I needed to eat regular, heartier meals to gain the strength I needed to be a success on the stage, but it still made me uneasy that he was paying for our excursions outside the Opera from his own pocket.

"I will," I promised sincerely, earning a small smile from him before he popped a bit of bread into his mouth. I looked away, choosing to focus upon the plate before me, for I knew that it made him uncomfortable when people watched him eat. I wondered if he believed me or not, and I swore silently to myself that I would work harder to improve. I knew that it frustrated him when I didn't apply myself, something that he often told me with more than a tinge of anger coloring his voice, although our lesson today had gone well.

"Tell me more about Metz," I murmured after he finished the bread, curious about the past that he so rarely talked about with me. Usually he asked me questions about my childhood or my life in Paris, and although he knew quite a bit about me I knew practically nothing about him. Yesterday he had mentioned that he had been born in Metz and that he had spent most of his life there before moving to Paris. He pronounced it the German way instead of the French way, and when I had commented about it he had explained that, although his parents were French, for the first nineteen years of his life the city had been a part of the German Empire.

"It's small," he replied gruffly, and I was unsure if he disliked speaking about himself in general or just his past. "Much smaller than Paris." He pushed another small bit of bread into his mouth and I noticed that he was missing several of his teeth on the right side before I concentrated on my sausage again, wondering what had happened to him but not daring to ask. I was certain that if I questioned him too much he would say goodbye to me one afternoon and never come back, and I knew that I could never make my father's dreams for me come true without Anatole assisting me.

Still, my curiosity got the best of me and I found myself asking him something else that had been on my mind since yesterday. "Can you speak German?" I supposed that it was likely that he did, considering that he had grown up in a German-occupied area, and the thought made me feel strange. Just hearing the foreign tongue being spoken on the streets of Paris was enough to make my stomach queasy, and I could not imagine Anatole using the hated language.

"I can," he responded with a shrug, "but I rarely do. I wouldn't want to be mistaken for a Nazi now, would I?" He sounded like he was teasing me and I decided to take it as a peace offering for his irritable answer to my last question.

"I don't think you have to worry about anyone doing _that_," I replied with a grin, the sheer absurdity of someone believing that Anatole was a Nazi almost making me laugh out loud.

"And why is that?" he questioned as I pressed my palm over my mouth, appearing amused at my attempts to keep from giggling. "I speak German and I live in the same apartment building as Gestapo officers."

"Do you?" His statement dulled my merriment and I felt the anxiety that was almost always present in my heart return. "Aren't you frightened?" I knew that the Nazis had requisitioned many apartments and even entire buildings across Paris, but I had not been aware that Anatole lived so close to them. Once again I was thankful that only university students lived on my block, for I would be unable to feel safe with any German soldiers as my neighbors.

"Of course not," he answered without a note of panic in his steady voice, and I wondered how he could be so calm. "I have nothing to fear from the Nazis – no one does unless he's a lawbreaker." He seemed so confident that I nearly believed him, but I remembered all of the stories Mama had told me about the Ukraine and snippets of the Professor's speeches. They had both been so certain that the Germans were not to be trusted, surely they had good reasons for thinking so.

"I follow the rules," I assured my tutor as I stared down at the rest of my lunch, the sausage not so appealing anymore although I knew that I had to eat it or be hungry later that night. I glanced around the room and did not see any Nazi soldiers inside, but I had heard rumors that there were German spies everywhere and one should never say too much in public. "I'm just so afraid…"

"You shouldn't be," Anatole replied gently as I tried to swallow a bite of food. "Most of the soldiers are just normal men with families at home and ordinary careers – I've only met a few who were cruel on purpose."

"How can you defend them? They're animals," I hissed as I leaned across the table so he could hear my words. I took a deep breath when I saw him blink, probably surprised by my hostility, and I placed my palms on top of the table. "I'm sorry, it's just – they're everywhere now, on the street corners, in the Opera, everywhere, and every time I see them I'm reminded how fragile life is. The Nazis can do anything they want to do and no one can stop them, they can make people disappear and everyone pretends not to notice."

"We shouldn't discuss such things in public," Anatole whispered, looking around uneasily at the other customers, and I knew that he was right although there were so many more things that I wished to say. For years I had kept my bitterness and worries to myself and I just wanted to tell _someone_ about them, someone who would understand and not think that I was being irrational. I felt the urge to cry but instead I finished the rest of my lunch without tasting it at all, remaining silent as Anatole signaled to the waiter that he was ready for the bill.

When we left the _brasserie _I found myself walking more slowly than I normally did, dreading having to return to the Opera for afternoon rehearsals. Now that I had been given the role of Siebel and named an understudy for Marguerite, Carlotta seemed unable to stop making snide comments about how undeserving I was of the role, even insinuating that the reason for my promotion was an inappropriate relationship with one of the managers. Anatole told me that I should ignore her insults, that we would surprise everyone once given the chance to do so, but I wasn't sure if I could produce the results that he promised. There was no doubt that my voice was improving, but could I actually be Marguerite without being laughed off the stage?

Anatole slowed his pace and waited for me to catch up to him, making me recall how my father had often done the same thing when I was a small girl and unable to keep up with his long legs. The thought gave me a small measure of comfort and I smiled hesitantly at my tutor. "I'm sorry for talking about that over lunch, I hope you aren't upset with me." When he shook his head I impulsively grabbed his arm and held it tight, and although he looked down at my hand he didn't shrug away from my grip. "I've just – Anatole, maybe you understand, I'm so lonely. I don't have any friends here and I haven't had anyone to confide in for years, so I just keep everything inside until I feel like I'm about to burst."

"Sometimes the safest thing for you to do is not to talk about what bothers you," he offered after a moment's consideration, his eyes darting around the crowded streets as if he thought we were being watched. "That is why music can be such a wonderful outlet – let the audience experience what you are feeling, Christine. You said that you've been keeping your emotions inside for years but you don't have to do that – the audience can weep your tears if you let yourself _feel_ while on stage."

It was not what I had expected from him – I had assumed that he would try to comfort me, maybe even give my shoulder an awkward pat – but I had learned that it was nearly impossible to determine how he would react to anything I said. I let go of his arm and we walked silently towards the Opera, my mind replaying his advice and I wondered if it had worked for him. There were so many things I wanted to know about him, but it was as if there were a barrier between us that I was not allowed to cross. He could ask as many questions as he liked about my past, but whenever I tried to learn about his background he would become quiet or moody, leaving me with the conclusion that whatever he had suffered through still caused him a great deal of pain.

When we reached the Opera I was tempted to invite him inside to watch our rehearsal, but he seemed so distracted that I merely waved goodbye to him from the top stairs before going inside. Some of the ballet girls were clustered together gossiping, their whispers carrying down the hallway. Normally I ignored their chatter but when one of them mentioned the word "Nazis" I found myself stopping to listen.

"…Nazis took the whole family away last night," one of the girls was saying, her arms fluttering as she relayed the news to her friends. "One of the soldiers said that they were involved in the resistance, making counterfeit papers for downed airmen."

"It serves them right," another girl piped up with a casual shrug. "You have to go along with the Nazis while they're here. _I_ don't want to get arrested."

"_You_ do more than just go along with them," the first girl retorted, crossing her arms and giving her a mock stern glare. "We all know about Heinrich." Most of the group dissolved into giggles as the second girl's face turned bright red at the mention of the name.

"I heard that it was the work of the phantom," Meg Giry said after a moment, her pinched face earnest.

"The phantom? Only _babies_ believe in ghosts," Jammes declared imperiously, apparently forgetting that until a few months ago she had believed that Box Five was haunted by a specter.

"Not _that_ kind of phantom," Meg replied haughtily, her sallow cheeks growing pink as the entire group focused on her. "Joseph Buquet, the new sceneshifter, he told me about the phantom – _das Phantom von Deutschland_, that's what he calls him. Buquet said that _das Phantom_ is a Nazi spy who joins resistance groups to gather information about the members before having them arrested – that's what happened to the group he was a member of, the _Confrérie_."

"How would he know? If this phantom is such a great spy, why did he let Buquet escape?" The skepticism in the girl's voice was apparent even to me, and Meg seemed flustered by the question.

"I'm not sure," Meg replied helplessly, "I just know what he said."

"I think he told you a tale, Meg Giry. If there really were such a spy, Buquet would be wiser to keep his mouth shut." The other girls in the group nodded in agreement, causing Meg's cheeks to turn scarlet. Meg opened her mouth to say something else but the sound of the répétiteur clapping his hands together signaled the beginning of rehearsal; late again, I scurried past the cluster of girls and rushed onto the stage, earning disapproving glares from the répétiteur and Carlotta.

I went through the motions as I always did during practices, but my mind was far away from the stage today. Instead I thought about the unfortunate family that had apparently been arrested last night for working in the resistance. It was no secret to most of the employees of the Opera were aware that Monsieur Richard was involved in the underground – many of the sceneshifters and stagehands were fluent in English and spoke very little French – and not for the first time I envied his confidence. At least he was doing _something_ to oppose the Nazi occupation, whereas I merely spent my days worrying and wishing that I were back in Sweden or somewhere else that the Nazis had not yet invaded.

"Concentrate please," the répétiteur snapped as I missed my cue for the third time, my cheeks aflame as I realized that everyone was staring at me. I wavered through the first few lines of "_Faites-lui mes aveux_," and when I picked a flower that withered in my hand I could almost feel Siebel's melancholy. Finally I understood Anatole's advice from earlier that afternoon, but even as I tried to allow my own depression to color my voice, I still felt as if my life was utterly worthless.


	9. Chapter 6: Marguerite's Triumph

_Author's Note: Thank you to Gaston Leroux for PotO, Jamie L. Vaughan for the idea of setting PotO in WW2, Schattenfreude for the idea of having Christine as a resistance worker and Erik as a Nazi infiltrator, Mr. Robert S. for sharing his memories of WW2 and the French Resistance with me, and __everyone who reads this. :)_

_This story is lovingly dedicated to Shay, for without her this story never would have existed._

_Many squishy thanks to my beta, Jennyfair, who makes sure that my verbs are conjugated correctly, supplies me with all of the French phrases I could ever want or need, and helps me even when I get frustrated. She writes some excellent Phantom stories herself, so I highly recommend that you check out her profile!_

* * *

**early March 1943 - Paris, France – Erik**

I pecked at the typewriter with my index finger, trying to concentrate on what I wanted to say as I hunted for the right keys. I had always hated writing the numerous reports required by the Nazi bureaucracy, even when I had had two hands and typing had been a much easier task, and I couldn't help but think that if we lost the war they would provide the British with more than enough information to hang us all.

The sound of the phone ringing jarred me from my thoughts, and with an impatient sigh I turned away from the typewriter. "Allô, oui?" I asked as I tried to balance the receiver between my shoulder and cheek, still poking at the keys in an attempt to finish my report before this evening.

"Allô, oui?" the voice on the other end parroted, the mocking words causing me to roll my eyes as I continued to work.

"Your accent is atrocious Klein, you should really work on it," I mumbled, making no attempt to disguise my irritation, and he chuckled at my sarcasm.

"I don't have any reason to speak with a good French accent, _Monsieur_ – I am not a spy," Klein replied dismissively, and I pictured him waving his hand in the air to punctuate his general dislike for the language. He always said that he preferred the coarser sounds of German, but I suspected that at least part of his disdain for French was his inability to master it.

"And it's a good thing you're not, for you'd be denounced as one as soon as you walked through the door." I tried to imagine Klein as a spy but found it impossible to see him in civilian clothes – the neatly-pressed uniform in which he took so much pride almost seemed like a part of him. "Is there a reason for this call, or are you just lonely?"

Klein's unexpected guffaw was so loud that I had to hold the phone away from my ear until he stopped. "…to come along tonight, it will be fun," I heard him saying as I again placed the receiver against my cheek, his voice still tinged with mirth.

"What?" I questioned as I began to peck at the typewriter once more, cursing beneath my breath when I hit the wrong key.

"I was saying that I'm not lonely, I'm going to meet a girl at a restaurant in a few hours," he repeated patiently, although he raised his voice as if he thought that I was suddenly hard of hearing. "You should come with me, I can ask her to bring one of her friends along."

"You're always trying to set me up, Klein, and yet I always say no – aren't you ever going to get discouraged?" I sighed as I hit the wrong key once again, tearing the paper from the typewriter and crumpling it into a ball before tossing it into the wastebasket beside my small desk.

"It would be good for you to meet someone – it's not like you have to _marry_ her, von Helm, you won't even have to see her again after tonight if that's what you want. Gigi is a very cheap date, I'm sure her friends are the same way – all you have to do is buy her a good meal and she'll do practically anything for you." The tone of his voice left no doubt about what Gigi offered in return for dinner, but I could only think about the meals I often shared with Christine. She was so innocent and naïve, she was fortunate to not have run into a man who expected to be repaid for any kindnesses shown.

"I have to work tonight," I said with more coldness than I intended, but I was still dwelling upon what could have happened had Christine met someone like Klein and it angered me. "If I missed tonight's performance it would look suspicious." There was no need for him to know that I would much rather spend the evening watching Christine on stage in her minor role than in the company of any friends that Gigi would bring with her.

Although I had offered to be Christine's tutor with no intention of becoming any closer to her than necessary, I had discovered that weeks spent in her company had not left me unaffected. If I was honest with myself, she was far more to me than a mere student or a way to infiltrate the Opera; in fact, I had become rather attached to her in my own way. I frowned and quickly forced myself to concentrate on Klein's ramblings. "…all of the time makes you dull, von Helm, you need to get out more. It's nearly criminal not to sample the local flavor while in Paris."

"Just make sure you don't come back with any souvenirs that you can give to your girlfriend in Germany," I offered dryly, earning more raucous laughter from Klein before he finally revealed the reason behind his call.

"I need your report on Thursday next week, I'm not going to be in town on Friday." He was careful not to disclose too much over the telephone, although he had already informed me in person about the upcoming raid to the north of Paris that he was coordinating, which he hoped would destroy an important artery of the Paris underground network.

"You'll have it," I promised as I balefully eyed the crumpled sheets of paper that filled the wastebasket.

"Enjoy your _opera_ tonight," Klein teased before hanging up the phone, giving me no chance reply to the small barb, and I grunted as I replaced the receiver on the hook. I needed to hurry on the report if I wanted to finish it a day earlier than originally planned, and so I fished another piece of paper from my desk drawer and attempted to force it into the typewriter. I had almost succeeded when the phone rang again, and with a frustrated sigh I dropped the paper and reached for the phone.

"Allô, oui?" I grumbled into the receiver, waiting for Klein's mocking voice to fill my ear once again since he was the only one who ever called me, but instead there was only silence on the other end of the line. "Qui est-ce?" I asked testily, wondering if the line had suddenly gone dead or if someone had mistakenly called me.

"Anatole?" The voice was female and sounded nervous, definitely not Klein, but it still took me a few seconds to identify it.

"Christine?" I questioned hesitantly, although she was the only person in Paris with my phone number who would call me anything other than by my real last name. I had given her my number weeks ago in case she needed to reach me, but this was the first time that she had ever used it.

"Oh I'm so glad that you're there," Christine said breathlessly, and I could imagine her twisting the cord of the phone around her finger as she spoke. "I was afraid that you wouldn't answer, or that someone else would pick up and I wouldn't know what to say…" She half-suppressed a panicky giggle before becoming quiet once more.

"I have a private line," I replied dumbly, wondering what emergency had caused her to call me. "What's wrong, Christine? Are you sick?"

"No, no, nothing like that Anatole. I...Carlotta had another fit yesterday during practice and stormed off the stage, and just a few minutes ago Monsieur Richard asked to speak with me in his office. I'm going to be Marguerite tonight – oh Anatole, I'm so nervous!" Her voice wavered uncertainly, although her obvious anxiety didn't completely overwhelm the dash of excitement that I could hear as well. "Can you believe it? I don't know – I don't know if I can do this. Do you think I can? I don't want to make a fool of myself this evening, I'll never get another opportunity if I do!"

"You've been working for this night for weeks, Christine, you'll do fine," I assured her as my mind raced, thrilled that she had been given the chance to prove herself. I knew that I had Richard to thank for this favor and I intended to do so tonight – _after_ Christine had astounded all of Paris – although I suspected that he would be the one to thank me once he heard her improved voice!

"Can you come to the Opera early? Please Anatole, as a favor to me? I would feel so much better if I could just see you before the performance – oh my heart is beating so fast! I can't believe that I'm going to be Marguerite! I didn't think it would truly happen, the managers always gave in to Carlotta's demands before, I could scarcely believe my ears when Monsieur Richard told me that I would be performing the role tonight! Can you come early? Please say that you can." She sounded so desperate that I wouldn't have been able to deny her even if I had been so inclined.

"Yes, of course I can," I promised her before saying goodbye to her and hanging up the phone, my report all but forgotten as I pictured Christine upon the stage receiving thunderous rounds of applause. My own hopes for being a successful singer had been dashed long ago, but tonight – tonight I would live through my pupil and share in her success.

* * *

When I arrived at the Opera Christine was not waiting for me in her dressing room, but a hastily-scribbled note had been pinned to the door asking me to please wait inside the room for her as she would return once her makeup was finished. I had never been inside Christine's dressing room without her being present and I was unsure of what I should do, choosing to sit on the faded divan that occupied one corner. The room was small and seemed crowded to me – the divan, vanity, and dressing screen took up most of the free space, and one wall was dominated by a gigantic mirror. I always took special care to avoid looking at my reflection in it during our lessons, instead focusing upon the intricately carved wooden frame, but now I found my eyes being drawn towards the mirror in spite of myself

Frustrated, I stood and stalked over to the far corner of the room, choosing to examine what Christine had on her vanity. I picked up the picture of her parents and scanned their faces, deciding that Christine heavily favored her mother in appearance before returning the frame to its place beside four nearly empty bottles of perfume and a box that presumably contained loose powder. A few souvenirs were tucked into the frame of the small mirror that was attached to the vanity and I leaned closer to inspect them: a postcard depicting some unknown seascape, the slip of paper I had given her with my phone number scrawled upon it, and a well-worn flyer apparently written in Swedish. The language was similar enough to Danish that I could understand that it advertised Christine and her father performing at a country fair.

I quickly straightened when I heard Christine rush into the room and lock the door behind her, but when I turned around to look at her I knew that she had caught me staring at her belongings. "It's a lovely scene," I muttered and gestured towards the postcard, distressed that I made my living as a spy and had been caught snooping through her belongings.

"It's of the Brittany coast," she replied with a wistful smile, "Mama Valérius bought it for me the last year we went to the sea, the year after my father died. It wasn't the same without the Professor and Papa, though." She shook her head as if to clear her mind of the painful memories, instead reaching for me and clasping my hand with both of her own. "I'm so happy to see you Anatole, I don't think I would be able to go through with tonight if I couldn't see you first. Do you really believe I'm ready for this? I don't want to be a disappointment to you or Monsieur Richard."

"Just remember everything that you've learned Christine and you'll do well." She didn't seem very convinced by my attempt to calm her, clinging to my hand so tightly that it began to tingle.

"I'm afraid," she whispered as she released my fingers, lowering herself onto the vanity chair. "I never dreamed that I would be Marguerite, Anatole, even though you've been promising me for weeks that I would have this chance – playing Siebel was far more than I had ever hoped for, as I've told you time and again. I felt overwhelmed with _that_ part! I'm terrified that I'll forget my lines, oh I'll be so embarrassed!"

"Try to be calm," I advised her, although I knew that my words would be of little use to her. I wished that she were more eager to assume the role of Marguerite, but I was also aware that she was naturally timid. She had certainly gained more confidence since we had first met, but during the rehearsals I had observed she still seemed rather anxious whenever someone paid her too much attention. How would she react with everyone in the building staring at her tonight?

"How can I be _calm_? I haven't been this scared in years, not since the Nazis invaded Paris." She tried to fuss with her hair but her hands were trembling so badly that she gave up and began to fret with a loose thread on her dressing gown instead. "You must think me stupid, to earn my living upon the stage and yet to be so frightened. I should be absolutely thrilled with this opportunity, I know that I'm acting foolish."

"_Why_ are you nervous? I don't understand it Christine – I know that it hasn't always been this way with you, Richard has told me as much." Her attitude had confused me since the day we met, although I had never addressed it until now.

"It wasn't always like this," she admitted with a sigh, picking up the double frame that held the pictures of her parents and tracing the faded photograph of her father with a finger. "When Papa was alive everything was different. I don't know how to explain it to you Anatole, only that it made me feel so much better when he was there watching me sing. When he died it was as if he had taken part of me with him and I don't know how to get it back." She sniffed indelicately and dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing gown, careful not to ruin her makeup. "I wish that he were here tonight – he would be so happy to see me on stage, it was always more his dream than mine for me to be a diva."

I opened my mouth to offer some insincere platitude about how loved ones are always with us, even after death, but I couldn't bring myself to speak the words. I had witnessed far too much suffering and death to honestly believe in such a thing, and I supposed that it was likely that Christine felt the same way, even in her distress. Instead I took a few steps towards her until I stood close enough to touch her, resting my fingertips on her shoulder. "If he _were_ here tonight, do you think that he would want to see you like this? Would it make him happy to know that his daughter is frightened to tears at the thought of being Marguerite?" Christine shook her head and pressed her hand against her mouth, as if to stifle another sob. "What do you think he would want, then?"

She set the frame on the vanity and silently stared at it for several minutes, but when I lifted my fingers from her shoulder she jumped as if the movement had frightened her. "He'd want me to be happy," she said finally, twisting around in her chair so she could look at me directly. "He wouldn't want me to be half-paralyzed with fear – Papa would tell me to do my very best and to enjoy myself."

"Then why you don't try that?" I asked with a smile, earning a wobbly grin from Christine in return. "You've worked so hard for this night – _we've_ worked so hard – and it's finally here. It will be a shame if you waste it."

"I knew that seeing you would make me feel better," she replied as she patted her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing gown again, her voice sounding stronger to my ears. "It means so much to me that you're here Anatole – without you I know that I would have never had this chance. I want to make you proud of me tonight."

"You'll do fine," I assured her, and for the first time since I had seen her that evening I believed that she truly would. Glancing at the clock on her wall, I was surprised to see that there were less than twenty minutes before the performance was scheduled to start. "I should probably go…" I wanted to wish her luck even though I knew that it would be considered bad form to do so, instead choosing to pat her hand awkwardly. "You'll be a great Marguerite."

"Thank you Anatole – for everything." Her genuine smile reassured me and I nodded before retreating from her dressing room, ready to settle into my seat and wait for Christine's moment to show the entire city, especially those at the Opera who had treated her shabbily, that they had all underestimated her. Tonight was her chance to show everyone that she was more than just a pretty face with a passable voice.

I was only slightly startled when I discovered Richard waiting for me inside my box; although it was uncommon for him to join me during a performance, he had accompanied me more than once. "I hope that my trust in the both of you isn't misplaced," he offered gruffly as the boxkeeper handed me a program, "I can't afford to give refunds to a full house."

"You worry far too much," I replied with a hint of annoyance that I attempted to conceal with a small chuckle. "Why don't you let Moncharmin do that so you can enjoy the night's show?"

"Believe me Delacroix, he's fretted far more than I have about tonight – he's been begging me since yesterday to do whatever it took to soothe Carlotta's feelings so she would sing instead. Did Christine tell you what happened?" I shook my head as I sat down beside him, careful not to bump into his wheeled chair with my elbow as I flipped open the program. "That woman could easily try the patience of a saint. She flew into a rage because the actor playing Faust isn't to her liking, as if we should recast the entire production on her whim!"

"Perhaps it's time for just one change in the cast," I said smoothly as I placed the program on the empty seat beside me. "Don't object until you've heard Christine sing the role, Richard – I think you'll be pleasantly surprised at how much she's improved."

"I'll be happy as long as I don't have to give any refunds," my companion grumbled as he crossed his arms and scowled at the box that Moncharmin and a few high-level Nazi officers occupied. "He'll never let me hear the end of it if this is a disaster, the man can be insufferable. At least he's good for a few things – god forbid that I be the one who is forced to mingle with the uniforms, they'd string me up before the night is through."

The announcement that there would be understudies in the roles of Marguerite and Siebel this evening cut our conversation short, and anxiously I leaned forward in my chair as I waited for Christine to appear. Idly I noted to myself that while the tenor portraying Faust certainly wasn't the best I had heard in the role, he was decent enough, especially now with many men his age fighting in battles instead of being able to devote themselves to the arts. I found myself wondering how many promising young performers would be killed in this war, or wounded so horribly that their dreams of the stage would be crushed as mine had been. I rubbed the line of scars that I could never quite hide beneath high-collared shirts as I watched Méphistophélès appear in a sudden puff of red smoke, tempting Faust with the promise of Marguerite's love.

_Small wonder why he's so willing to sign his soul away_, I thought as Christine was revealed working at the spinning wheel, appearing as fresh and young as the devil had sworn she would be. "She definitely looks the part," Richard conceded in a hushed whisper as he smoothed his mustache with his thumb, a nervous habit of his that did little to squash the annoyance I still felt.

"It seems that one of your _guests_ is rather enthralled," I observed dryly as one of the Nazi officers sitting with Moncharmin borrowed the other manager's opera glasses, craning his neck so he could get a better view of Christine. Richard grunted in response as he continued to stroke his mustache absently, and I forced myself to stop glaring at the soldier and focus instead on the opera.

I was well aware of Christine's vocal abilities, but as I watched her upon the stage I still found myself being surprised by the complete change in her. Her rendition of the Jewel Song was impressive, even though she had wavered uncertainly during the first few lines before regaining her confidence, but the most remarkable part of her performance was Marguerite's descent into madness. She seemed genuinely hysterical as Marguerite attempted to find solace in old memories, reminding me very much of Christine earlier this evening, and her final plea for redemption was so sincere and emotionally raw that part of me was astonished that angels truly didn't sweep her from the stage.

"Remarkable!" Richard shouted close to my ear as he enthusiastically clapped his hands together, his praise almost drowned out by the thunderous rounds of applause. "My god, what did you _do_ to her? I've never heard her sing like _that_!" His lips continued to move but I could no longer hear his words, the audience's response to Christine's performance so deafening that my ears rang. The noise only increased as the curtain call progressed until it was Christine's turn to step forward and curtsy, her entire face flushed as she offered the crowd a broad smile. When she took a few steps backwards to rejoin the other cast members her stride seemed wobbly to me, and before the entire line could bow in unison I noticed her knees buckling.

"I think she's about to faint," I exclaimed more to myself than to Richard, well aware that he probably would be unable to hear me, and within a few seconds Christine collapsed into the arms of the puzzled actor who had played Faust. "Excuse me," I said as I tapped Richard on the arm, gesturing towards the door of the box, and he waved me away before resuming his hearty applause.

_She's merely overwhelmed by her success_, I assured myself as I fought through the packed halls, but I could not help but worry – Christine was naturally frail and I hoped that she had not pushed herself too hard tonight. It seemed that I would never reach her dressing room; the normally quiet hallway just outside of it was now crowded with well-wishers, curious onlookers, and potential admirers – including, I noted with disdain, the Nazi officer who had been sitting with Moncharmin during the performance and had been so infatuated with her.

Finally able to push my way into the dressing room, I shut the door behind me and saw that Christine was resting upon the divan, one arm limply hanging over the side, with someone whom I presumed to be a doctor attending to her. "You need to wait outside," the man ordered as he pressed a wet cloth to her forehead, his tone leaving no room for argument, but before I could explain my presence Christine's eyelids fluttered open, a sigh escaping from her lips.

"What happened?" she questioned as she attempted to struggle into a sitting position for a few seconds before flopping back onto the pillows. "Anatole?"

"I'm here," I assured her as I knelt by her side, taking her hand briefly and giving it a gentle squeeze before releasing it. "You fainted Christine – no, don't try to get up, you need to rest."

"I have a headache," Christine complained as she pressed her fingers against her temple, wincing at the contact. "Did I hit my head when I fell?"

"You didn't fall, Mademoiselle, Carolus Fonta caught you before you could," the doctor said kindly, rustling through the bag at his feet. "Excuse us for a moment, Monsieur, so that I may examine her privately."

"No, no," she assured him, her voice trembling. "I'm not feeling ill Docteur Saunier, please don't trouble yourself. I'll be fine in the morning, I'm just very tired."

The doctor appeared tempted to protest Christine's abrupt dismissal of him, but as he looked first at Christine and then at me he smiled knowingly before offering his card. "Very well, Mademoiselle Daaé – if you should need me please call. And allow me to extend my congratulations on such a fine performance tonight!" Snapping his bag closed, he grinned at us before exiting the room.

"He seems to think that we want to be alone," I said, and Christine's smiled tiredly at my wry comment. "You were wonderful," I whispered after a moment, suddenly self-conscious as I realized that the doctor had been right – I did want to be alone with her, although not for the reason he suspected. It was odd to feel so awkward, especially since I had spent countless hours with her in this very dressing room, but something seemed different to me this evening.

"Do you really think so?" she questioned, watching me carefully as if she hoped to discern my true feelings.

"Do _I_ think so? All of Paris thinks so!" Disturbed by her intense gaze, I averted my eyes and found myself focusing upon her hair instead, recalling how pretty it had looked flowing loose around her shoulders during the prison scene. _That officer only noticed her because of her beauty, he doesn't care about how she sings at all_, I thought bitterly to myself before hesitantly smoothing one curl with my thumb, rather jealous now that Christine's voice no longer belonged just to us.

"I don't care what all of Paris thinks," she said simply as she reached for my hand again, our fingers entwining as I dared to meet her eyes. "I sang for you tonight, Anatole."

Her unexpected admission rendered me unable to speak for several moments as I tried to make sense of the strange feeling that clouded my thoughts. _Stop it right now Erik von Helm, _I silently ordered myself as she continued to stare at me sleepily,_ you're looking at her more like that officer did tonight than as a tutor or even a friend. You're not even supposed to _be_ her friend, she was supposed to be a pawn and nothing more…_

"You were better than I had even imagined," I told her sincerely as I let go of her hand and rose unsteadily to my feet, my knees creaking slightly as I straightened my legs. "You must be exhausted."

"I feel like I've given my soul tonight and now I have nothing left within me," she admitted, pressing her hand against her mouth in a failed attempt to suppress a yawn.

"Would you like for me to hire a taxi to take back to your apartment tonight? I don't think that you'll be able to stay awake long enough to board the metro," I teased as she struggled to keep her eyes open. "I have a feeling that you'll sit down on a bench to rest for a moment and end up falling asleep."

"A taxi is so expensive," Christine protested, this time making no move to stifle the yawn that escaped from her lips, and she giggled as she finally managed to pull herself into a sitting position. "I do suppose you're right, except I probably wouldn't even make it to a bench. Do you think the stairs of the Opera will be comfortable?"

"No," I replied as I fetched her coat from the hook on the back of her door and held it out to her. "Let's go see if we can find a cab, Christine – consider it a present for tonight's success. It isn't every night that you bring the entire audience to its feet."

"You spoil me, Anatole," she objected half-heartedly as she shrugged into her coat, her legs trembling as she stood. "I can't believe that I fainted in front of everyone," she grumbled as we left her dressing room, "I've never fainted before in my life and I had to do it tonight!" I chuckled at her complaint but said nothing else as we walked through the nearly deserted hallways of the building, most of the performers and patrons having hurried home to beat the curfew.

The cool night air felt good against the bare skin of my neck, but the small twinges in my chest warned me that if I breathed too deeply I would suffer through a painful coughing fit. I managed to flag down a cab without much effort, giving the driver Christine's address and enough money to cover the fare before helping her into the car. She was so drowsy that I had no doubt that she would be asleep before the taxi went a block, and I wondered how much of tonight would only be a hazy memory for her come morning.

"Goodnight Christine," I murmured before shutting the door, watching her waving at me from the back seat of the car until it turned around a corner. I sighed as I wrapped my scarf carefully around my throat and lower half of my face before starting back to my own apartment, and even though tonight had gone better than I could have ever expected I could not help but feel that something else had gone quite wrong.


	10. Chapter 7: In the Night

_Author's Note: Thank you to Gaston Leroux for PotO, Jamie L. Vaughan for the idea of setting PotO in WW2, Schattenfreude for the idea of having Christine as a resistance worker and Erik as a Nazi infiltrator, Mr. Robert S. for sharing his memories of WW2 and the French Resistance with me, and __everyone who reads this. :)_

_This story is lovingly dedicated to Shay, for without her this story never would have existed._

_Many squishy thanks to my beta, Jennyfair._

* * *

**mid-****March 1943 - Paris, France – Christine  
**

As I sat at my vanity and began to remove the stage makeup from my face I found myself thinking about how quickly things had changed – a week ago I had received a standing ovation as Marguerite with several admirers wishing to tell me how much they had enjoyed my performance, but with my dressing room now empty and the hallway outside silent, it all seemed like a dream. It was lonely without Anatole here with me; he had called earlier this afternoon to inform me that he wouldn't be able to make it to the Opera tonight, and though I had wanted to ask him why, I could not make myself speak the words because I was unsure if I wanted to hear his honest answer. He had never promised to come to every performance and had in fact already missed a few before tonight, but his absence nevertheless made me feel rather depressed, especially this evening.

La Carlotta had returned to the Opera as soon as she had heard of my success and within a day I had been back in the role of Siebel once more. Monsieur Richard had called me into his office to personally explain why Carlotta had been reinstated, and although I understood his reasoning I had still left our meeting in tears – not because I particularly wanted to be Marguerite every night, but because I was afraid that Anatole would be disappointed in me for being only the understudy again. Even though he had assured me that he was not upset with me, I was well aware that he was irritated with my demotion and that he had spoken with Monsieur Richard about it a few days ago, although I was unsure what either had said. I could not help but wonder if the true reason why he was not here tonight to see me perform was because he was upset that I was not Marguerite. His empty box had only served to reinforce the distress I had experienced when Carlotta had hissed in my ear that I would never be given the opportunity to play the role again.

Dropping the damp rag into the basin of water, I picked up the piece of paper with Anatole's phone number written on it and realized that I still wasn't sure where his apartment was located, one of the many things I didn't know about him. Whenever we were together he was careful to steer the conversation towards music or my own life, never volunteering anything about himself unless I questioned him directly. I sighed and tucked the scrap of paper back into my mirror before staring at the postcard of the Brittany shore and remembering how easy life had been then, with my only worries being an errant wind blowing my scarf into the sea or having sand in my shoes.

I turned away from the mirror and walked over to the lone window in my room, parting the blackout curtains and gazing out at the dark city. The streets were almost deserted now because of the Nazi-imposed curfew and the thought of running into one of the night patrols was enough to make me shiver with dread. It wasn't uncommon for Opera workers to be briefly detained by the patrols after a late night – some of the ballet rats even deliberately dawdled after a performance in the hopes of being stopped by a group of handsome soldiers – but the last thing I wanted tonight was to be questioned by Nazis about why I was out and where I was going.

Eyeing my divan with a sigh as I closed the curtains once more, I decided that it was probably best that I spend the night in my dressing room. Although the managers would most likely chastise me for staying overnight if they knew, I was too tired to make it back to my own apartment and I didn't have enough money to pay for a cab; besides, I had dozed on my divan several times after performances without being caught by anyone, though not recently since Anatole almost always walked me to the métro station now, sometimes offering to pay for dinner at a new restaurant he had discovered in the city if I wasn't too tired.

I frowned as I pulled out a worn blanket from the bottom drawer of the vanity, still fretting over why he had not come to the Opera. _At least he had seemed somewhat regretful about not making it_, I tried to comfort myself as I fluffed the pillows, hoping that I wasn't reading too much into the abrupt apology he had offered before hanging up the phone. I turned out the light and fumbled with the ties on my dressing gown, finally managing to shrug out of the garment and drape it over the corner of the privacy screen so I wouldn't trip over it in the morning. The air in the room was cool and I burrowed beneath the blanket, wishing that I had brought something heavier than the thin cotton dress I now wore, and I remembered the long winter nights in Sweden when my father had teased me that my toes would be frostbitten come morning if I didn't wear two pairs of socks to bed.

Even though I was exhausted I stared at the ceiling for several minutes, only closing my eyes when I heard the rumble of a truck passing by the Opera. It could only be the Gestapo this late at night, perhaps on their way to another raid, and I crossed my arms over my chest, trying very hard to recall the happier times of my childhood instead of dwelling upon less pleasant things, and eventually I settled upon the memory of my father lulling me to sleep with tales about the Angel of Music.

* * *

_I watched Mama Valérius out of the corner of my eye as the professor began to speak a little too forcefully about politics as we ate dinner, waiting for her gentle admonition that such topics weren't appropriate at the table, especially with me present. Even though I was fifteen years old Mama insisted upon treating me as if I were too young to be exposed to such things, which only made me more eager to listen. _

"_I don't understand why we don't _do_ something about it. The Treaty of Versailles clearly states that Germany is not to have a military presence in the Rhineland and yet they admit that they do! We should strike now, or France will be next!" Professor Valérius emphasized his point by firmly placing his fist upon the table, rattling the dishes and causing Mama to frown._

"_Jakob," she murmured disapprovingly as she leaned towards me and patted my fingers, "not in front of the child. Now, more_ holubtsi_?" I examined the cabbage rolls with distaste as my father shook his head, coughing into his cupped hand as he turned from the table, and I glanced at him nervously. He had been diagnosed with tuberculosis over two years ago and only grew worse, and though he assured me that there wasn't cause to worry, I had seen his handkerchiefs stained with blood._

_We finished our meal in silence, and it wasn't long before the professor and Papa excused themselves to the study to continue their discussion, and I cleared the table as Mama washed the dishes. Even though she was __frail and they employed a maid to do the more strenuous household chores, Mama insisted upon doing all that she could for as long as she was able. After she finished I helped her into the parlor, fetching a blanket for her to spread over her lap so she didn't catch a chill, but the whole time focused on the quiet rumbling voices coming from the study next door._

"_Won't you sing something for me, dear?" Mama questioned with a knowing smile, no doubt aware of my attempt to eavesdrop on the conversation between Papa and the Professor, although she was too polite to say so. _

"_Would you like to hear something in particular, Mama?" When she shook her head I began to sing the first thing that popped into my mind, an old Swedish ballad that I could recall my own mother singing to me when I was a little girl. I wished that I had more memories of her, but it seemed the older I became the fewer I could recall. _

_Once I was sure that Mama was asleep I tiptoed from the room, quietly shutting the door behind me, and crept towards the study. Pressing my cheek against the wooden door, I could hear the two men speaking much more clearly. _

"…_afraid for what the future holds," the Professor mumbled, and I could almost picture him puffing away at his pipe as he spoke, which brought a smile to my face. "If Ruth were able to travel I would try to take us all somewhere else – Israel, perhaps, or even America." It was strange hearing him refer to Mama by her given name, for even my father called her Mama._

"_I don't think that I would make it," Papa said before being overtaken by a coughing spell, and I pressed my hand against my mouth as I waited for it to subside, my insides feeling as if they were made of ice. "Please, if anything should happen…"_

"_You needn't worry yourself," the Professor replied kindly. "Even if the worst happens – even if the Nazis invade France and we're not able to escape in time – they'll want nothing with your daughter. She's a blonde Swede, the epitome of perfection in their eyes."_

"_I cannot help but worry – she will be an orphan within a few years, probably sooner." It was the first time that I had ever heard my father talk about his own death and it frightened me, and although I could not help but wish that I had never wanted to overhear their conversation I could not pull myself away now._

"_So long as Ruth and I live she will never be alone," he reassured Papa, but it did little to soothe me. "We won't adopt her – I won't take that chance, not with Ruth and I being Jewish, even if the Nazis don't come someone else will eventually – but we will care for her, as if she were our own child."_

"_I wish that I could take her back to Sweden, but she has no one there. If only __Kajsa__ were alive…" Papa had not mentioned my mother's name in such a long time that I had almost forgotten how it sounded when he said it. Unable to stand it any longer, I opened the door without knocking and barreled towards Papa, wrapping my arms around his waist and hiding my face against the front of his shirt, sure that as long as I could hear the steady beat of his heart that everything would be fine. _

* * *

I awoke suddenly, the sound of my father's heart still ringing in my mind and my cheeks wet with tears. I hurriedly brushed them away only to realize that I had not been dreaming everything – there _was_ a loud pounding noise, but it seemed as if it were coming from outside. Peering out the window, I could barely make out a car idling in the street, its exhaust fumes visible in the cold although the headlights were not turned on in spite of the darkness. _How odd_, I thought to myself before groping in the darkness for the dressing gown I had hung up earlier that evening, wrapping it around me but not bothering to tie it. _Who could it possibly be at this hour? _The delivery trucks didn't start running until four o'clock, and although I could not be certain of the time, I supposed that it was probably closer to two.

The pounding started anew and I realized that someone must be beating on the door below my dressing room. _Perhaps I shouldn't answer it_, I fretted to myself as I smoothed the scrap of lace that had worked its way loose from the collar that I had not yet repaired. _ I shouldn't even be here – no one should be, not even that person on the streets…what if he's a Nazi?_ I stood on the divan and tried to get a better view of the person outside, but it was too dark for me to see much of anything.

_The Nazis tend to show themselves inside_, I reminded myself bitterly, recalling when they had come for someone in the building next to mine. The sound of the splintering wood as they had rammed in the door and the screams of the man and his family… I shuddered and placed my hands against my stomach, afraid that I would become ill at the memory.

_What if the man outside needs help? He has to be desperate, to take the chance of being caught after curfew. _I hopped down from the divan, the floor cold beneath my bare feet, and lit the lamp before kneeling in front of the vanity and rummaging for the small supply of candles I kept in the bottom drawer for emergencies. The knocking outside stopped after I managed to light one of the candles without burning myself, and I peered out the window to make sure that the man had not given up and left, but I could see someone standing in the street staring up at my window. I hurriedly shut the curtains, fearful that a Nazi patrol might see the light from my room as well, and raced down the hallway towards the stairwell that led to the side door, careful not to trip over the hem of my dressing gown.

When I reached the door I hesitated for a moment, once again afraid. _What sort of man comes to a building that was supposed to be deserted in the middle of the night? Then again_, I reasoned as I bit my lower lip, _if he intended to rob the place he wouldn't have knocked, would he? _I forced myself to unlock the door before I became completely paralyzed with fear, hoping that I had made the right decision.

A burly man in a tattered coat stood a few meters from me on the ramp that Monsieur Richard used to get into the Opera, and though his hat was pulled so low over his eyes that I could not see them, I could still feel him studying me quietly. "Are either of the managers here?" he finally asked in a low voice, sweeping his hat from his head and twisting it in his large hands, a gesture that did nothing to calm my nerves.

"No," I whispered, half-hiding behind the doorframe. "If you need to speak with them you should come back in the morning—"

"I can't wait that long," the man replied, glancing over his shoulder before returning his attention to me. "Who are you?"

"Who are _you_?" I repeated, more than a little put off by his lack of manners. His lips twisted in what might be considered a smile, but there was no joy in it.

"It is better for everyone, especially you, if I keep my name to myself," he said frankly before taking a few steps towards me, and although my first instinct was to retreat from him I held my ground. "Normally I would bow and wish you a good day, Mademoiselle, but I'm afraid that I don't have that luxury tonight, and I certainly do not have the patience to play guessing games. Now I will ask again – who are you?"

"I'm a singer here," I offered lamely, finally taking a step back from the man whose unnerving gaze was making me wish that I had never opened the door at all. "My name is Christine Daaé – I shouldn't be here, I should've gone home, please, the managers will be here early in the morning, come back then."

I tried to swing the door shut but he was too quick for me, firmly placing his booted foot in the doorway so I could not close it in his face. "Daaé – Scandinavian then?" When I nodded he began to stroke the stubble upon his face thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as he continued to examine me. "What do you think about the resistance?"

I opened my mouth to answer but I didn't know what to say. It was not as if I were completely innocent when it came to underground work; I was well aware that Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin were involved in it, often using the Opera to hide people, but I had always carefully averted my eyes from the stagehands who spoke no French, the seamstresses who didn't know how to do anything but the most basic repairs to costumes, and the electricians who knew too much about explosives and not enough about fixing faulty wiring. The most rebellious thing I had ever done was to pretend that I didn't speak French when Nazis attempted to speak to me, and that was to keep them from asking me on dates, not to help the resistance. "I don't know what you're talking about," I said finally, but my voice hardly sounded confident to my own ears.

"You're not a very good liar," he wryly remarked, but before he could say any more the sound of a truck lumbering through the streets caused us both to freeze. "Get inside," he hissed as he grabbed my elbow and pulled me into the building, kicking the door shut behind us and signaling that I should remain quiet before letting me go. I scarcely dared to breathe as I rubbed my elbow and watched my companion pressing his ear against the door and closing his eyes as he focused upon the sound of the vehicle, both of us waiting for someone to notice his idling car.

"I was sure that they were coming down this street," he whispered after the truck was only a faint rumbling sound, cracking the door open and peering outside cautiously. "God must still have a purpose for me yet." He crossed himself quickly before opening the door fully and stepping onto the ramp.

"They're looking for you, aren't they?" I was surprised how calm my voice sounded, even though I still felt rather sick to my stomach; for some reason I was comforted by his spontaneous confession of faith, even though I had not attended church services since shortly after my father had died.

"Yes," he said simply, pulling his hat back onto his head. "I am going to tell you a story Mademoiselle, and then I am going to ask a favor of you – but first, I have something to show you." He gestured towards his car and I followed him down the ramp, puzzled as he opened the trunk and began to toss blankets carelessly onto the street until he revealed a man in uniform at the bottom.

I gasped and took a step backwards. "Is he dead?" I questioned, pressing my hand against my throat.

"Not yet," the man grunted as he pulled the soldier into a sitting position, seemingly oblivious to the uniformed man's groans of pain. "Mademoiselle, I was supposed to be at the safe house this evening at nine o'clock, but on the way there I had a flat tire and I arrived much later than expected. I think now that it was God again, for when I reached the safe house it had been raided by the Gestapo." He began to assist the soldier from the trunk and the soldier whimpered piteously when his left leg, which was wrapped crudely in linen bandages, touched the ground.

"Is there some place where we can finish our conversation privately?" the man asked, and I nodded mutely before scooping the blankets back into the trunk and shutting it. With another grunt he hoisted the soldier over his shoulder and followed me as I led him back to my dressing room, depositing the man in uniform onto my divan. The poor fellow cried out and my heart ached for him.

"I've been driving around for hours, trying to think of another place to take him, but the nature of my work only allows me to know the next link or two in the chain – it's not safe for one person to know too much. Fortunately I knew that the Opera was involved in the network, although it was my last choice. I didn't expect anyone to be here at this time of night, and Monsieur Richard has always insisted that only able-bodied people be brought to the Opera. I hope you can see, however, that this not an ordinary circumstance." The man removed his cap again and began twisting it so violently that I was sure he would rip it apart with his bare fingers.

"Who is he?" I asked, the corner where my divan was located still too dark for me to get a good look at my unexpected guest.

The man shrugged as he continued to crush his hat. "I make a point of not knowing their names – it's safer that way for everyone, especially them. All I know is that he is a downed RAF pilot and that he crashed somewhere north of Paris. If he's still wearing his tags, you can find out his name."

"What's wrong with him?" The soldier was twisting upon my divan as if in agony, small groans of pain escaping from his throat. I picked up the blanket that I had been using earlier that night and carefully draped it over his body.

"Broken leg, fever, probably some cracked ribs – I've seen some in worse shape, but he's pretty bad. Can you take care of him until this morning? Once you can talk to the managers – in person, not over the phone – they'll be able to tell you what to do."

I stared at the uniformed man and knew that I couldn't possibly say no. "I'll do it," I promised, and with a slight bow the man left my dressing room so quickly that I wondered if he thought that I would change my mind and he would be stuck with the soldier after all. I locked the door and turned around to examine the shadowy figure that now occupied my divan. _Oh God_, I prayed silently, like I hadn't done in years, _please don't let him die here. I don't know what to do_.

I was well aware that I had crossed some line tonight – it was quite one thing to look the other way when a new stagehand came to the Opera, but it was another matter entirely to hide a downed airman in my dressing room. If he was found here I could be arrested, deported, perhaps even be killed, and all for an unknown man who might not live long enough to see the sun rise in the morning. For some reason that I couldn't explain, however, I felt oddly exhilarated by my actions. I had been living in fear for years for no good reason, at least now I had done something that should rightfully make me afraid.

Completely awake now, I turned on the lights and crept towards the soldier. The poor man was filthy; his hair, which might have once been blonde, was streaked with dried blood and his face was covered in scratches. "Poor boy," I whispered softly, very gently touching his bruised forehead so I wouldn't add to the pain he must be experiencing. "You're so far from home, and there is so little I can do to help you."

I retreated to my vanity and wrung the rag that had been soaking in water all night before returning to his side, carefully dabbing at his wounds. He looked so young, perhaps only a few years older than me, and I could not help but pity him. He deserved much more than to die in a foreign land upon a faded divan with only a stranger for company. I could not give him much – I could not produce the medicine that he needed, I could not heal his wounds, I could not take away his pain – but I could give him the assurance that he was not alone.

"Poor boy," I whispered again as I continued to wipe away the streaks of blood and what appeared to be motor oil from his face. "You are in Paris now – it's a beautiful city, especially in the spring. Have you ever been to Paris before?" I wondered if he would be able understand my words if he could hear them at all, since so many of the British stagehands didn't seem to comprehend anything more than the most basic French. "My name is Christine."

His eyelids fluttered open, revealing bright blue eyes that seemed familiar to me, and for a moment my heart threatened to stop. _He looks like someone I used to know_, I thought to myself, pausing in my ministrations as we stared at one another. _Impossible, I don't know anyone who lives in England, except…no, it can't be. It _can't_ be._

"Lotte?" he managed to croak, his hand brushing aside the blanket and latching onto my wrist before he closed his eyes again with a heavy sigh.

I couldn't push any words past the lump that had formed in my throat, but my lips formed his name anyway. Frantically I began to undo his uniform jacket, my fingers uselessly fumbling with the buttons, and I slipped my hand beneath his undershirt, searching for the tags that would confirm what I believed to be true.

_The sea…a red scarf fluttering in the breeze…a brave little boy with shining blue eyes and a cheerful grin rushing into the water to save that scarf…_

My fingers closed around the warm metal of his tags and I pulled them out so I could read them, although I already knew what they would say.

_Raoul de Chagny.  
_

* * *

_Author's Note: The nameless man in this chapter is based upon a real person, but the rest is fiction. :)__  
_


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